Silenced
by quack675
Summary: Chase and Foreman are held captive and Chase is attacked. No one is left untouched by the fallout. This is a recovery fic in which most of the characters are doing some heavy self evaluation.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: House and it's characters are owned by Universal. No profit is sought from this work._

_Author Warning: This story starts off with something evil happening to Chase. The second chapter contains graphic violence and later chapters refer to it. However, this is not a "rape" fic just for the sake of sensationalism. This is a _recovery_ fic. We all know sexual assault is a horrible crime. What many do not know is how incredibly complex and difficult the process of recovery is. I hope this will inform as well as entertain the reader. _

_January 11_

"You're not the right doctor," declared a 30-something white male waiting in Exam Room Four. He was already perched on the examination table while another man stood by his side. Both were dressed professionally in dark suits and white shirts. The friend had his briefcase on the floor at his feet.

"It's a free clinic. You don't get to choose," Eric Foreman replied, already annoyed. It had been a long day and now he was roped into doing House's clinic hours. Six o'clock could not come quickly enough for him. He scowled, reading the name on the file in his hand, "Mr. Smith."

"But the other guy saved my life," Mr. Smith argued, putting a hand to his throat.

Foreman took a deep breath. "Were you scheduled for follow up?" He noted the scar over the man's trachea. He had been intubated.

"No. But I have to see him." The man seemed extremely nervous.

"There's nothing in your file about a previous visit." This only led Foreman to believe that the man's name was not really Smith. "If you're here for the same reason, it would be helpful to access your history."

"I didn't see him at this hospital." Mr. Smith explained. His friend quietly watched the interchange.

Foreman closed his eyes and grimaced. It was true that the free clinic drew in its fair share of idiots, but knowing that he was treated at a different hospital and searching for that doctor here took the cake. "Which hospital--"

His question was interrupted by the second man, a rather imposing block of a human with light brown hair, dark eyes, and a face that looked as if it had never truly smiled. "We were at a club and," he paused, "Joe went into ana-anpha-a-phylic," he shrugged sheepishly. "Something. He couldn't breathe. This guy saw what was happening tried to help us. He tried to get Joe to breathe, but said his throat was closed and no one had a pen. Joe was turning blue and the ambulance was not coming fast enough. This doctor used vodka and a razor, cut hole in his throat and put in a straw to help Joe breathe again. It was cool in a horrifying sort of way. I saw it on MASH once--didn't know it could actually be done outside of TV medical dramas. Everyone thought he was kind of crazy, but he just knew what to do and it worked. He said, 'An infection can be treated. Death, not so much.' He jumped right into action and later explained that he was an intensive care specialist at PPTH. The EMTs said that Joe would have died without his help."

"That doctor works here, but the ambulance took us to St. Sebastian's because it was closer." Joe Smith added, his pale green eyes were darting from the door to Foreman to his friend.

"Great story, but what are you here for? What's the problem today?" He wondered if he would have done the same thing or if he would have been too cautious and wound up letting the man die.Given the rarity of intensivists, he was certain they were talking about Chase; though he could not imagine him ever saying that death could not be treated. House, maybe. Chase, never. Joe Smith had been one lucky man. Very few people would have had the skill to take such basic materials and make them work for a tracheotomy. Foreman imagined they had told the story so many times that it had grown into something a little left of what really had happened, but he was not going to question it.

Joe stood and raised his voice, "The problem is I want to see the other doctor. The blond guy with an accent."

"It's your lucky day." Foreman said scathingly. "I happen to work very closely with _the blond guy with an accent_." Tired of the drama, he decided it would be much easier to call Chase for a consult than to attempt to deal logically with Mr. Smith. He picked up the phone and dialed the extension to the Diagnostics office. "Chase, I need you in Exam Room Four."

This appeased Mr. Smith enough that he would sit down again. His shifty eyes and satisfied smile reminded Foreman of a schizophrenic patient he had seen when he was doing his psych rotation. Foreman was more than happy to let Chase deal with the nutjob himself.

In a few minutes, Dr. Robert Chase pushed open the door and entered the exam room. "What's going on?" he asked Foreman, but Foreman was watching Mr. Smith.

When he saw Chase, Mr. Smith's eyes lit up with adulation. Foreman thought it was a bit creepy. "You have a patient," he said.

Joe smiled, "That's him. That's the one I want, the pretty one with the accent."

Chase cut his eyes to Foreman, assuming he was being set up. "Very funny."

Foreman shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. "He was adamant. You saved his life, after all." He had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. This was not as amusing as when House made sexually harassing comments to Chase, but it was close.

"At the club a few weeks ago," Joe supplied a reminder. "You were--"

"Oh, yes, I remember," Chase answered immediately. "How are you doing?" He touched the man's neck. "Slight scar, not too bad considering. I assume they gave you antibiotics to stem off an infection."

The friend approached Chase. "Joe hasn't been able to stop thinking about you."

"And you are?" Chase asked.

"Prepared to give Joe what he wants," the man answered. He pulled a gun from underneath his jacket.

Chase felt the cold metal pressed into his side and looked to Foreman whose eyes were wide. "The security in this hospital sucks," he muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: House, MD. belongs to Universal. No profit made/no profit sought._

Mr. Smith's accomplice held both doctors at gunpoint while he locked the exam room door. Mr. Smith was still gazing at Chase like he had won the lottery.

Foreman and Chase stood very close together trying to communicate while they had a chance.

"I'll try to get them to let you go," Chase told his teammate quietly. "Then you get help."

"I had no idea," Foreman apologized. He knew they were imbalanced, but he had no idea they were dangerous. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow.

"Shut up!" the gunman barked, turning back to them.

Joe stood again and was very close to Chase, looking him up and down like he was inspecting a product. He reached out to touch Chase's hair. He patted the floppy locks that often covered Chase's eyes when he was reading. "It's so soft," Joe said gleefully. He put his palm against Chase's cheek and tilted his head upward so he could study his face.

Chase felt his stomach lurch when the other man touched him. He wanted to swat the hand away from his face, but he was too afraid of what the other man would do if he fought. There was a very real gun pointed right at him.

Foreman saw that Chase looked as if he were going to be sick. There was no doubt that Joe Smith was a head case, but his friend was even more alarming, waving that gun at them with an unsteady hand.

Joe turned back to his friend, "He's pretty," he announced, nodding his head with approval. With the hand that was not on Chase, he touched his own neck. "And smart, and kind, and so talented."

Foreman's stomach turned with anxiety.

"What do you want from me?" Chase asked mustering up the courage to break the order to be quiet. He looked around the exam room as if he were seeing it for the first time, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon or a way to contact the outside office for help. He saw glass jars holding cotton balls and cotton swabs, a box of cheap one-ply tissues, rolls of medical tape and gauze, and a copy of _Good Housekeeping_ that someone had brought in from the waiting room. Anything that could have been useful was locked away in one of the sterile cabinets.

"Cooperation," the gunman answered. Chase noticed that his hand shook slightly which might indicate that he was not comfortable holding a gun. That could be interpreted two ways. Either it was a good thing because he did not often hold people at gunpoint and did not really have a desire to fire that gun, or it was a bad thing because he did not have practice holding someone at gunpoint and might be trigger happy should things not go his way. "Or people will die. Starting with your friend. Then those nice people in the waiting room."

Chase followed the gunman's glance to Foreman. "I'll cooperate," he answered. He looked to Foreman and back to the man. "I think your issue is with me, so there's no reason for him to be here."

The gunman laughed a hysterical, high-pitched laugh. "How stupid do you think I am?" he asked with a hint of anger. "Your buddy there ensures you'll do exactly what we say. Otherwise I'll blow his brains out. I figure being a doctor and all, you don't want to see people die unnecessarily. But it's really up to you."

_Trigger happy_, Chase decided, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Foreman silently repented for every time he had ever ridiculed Chase. He wished Chase actually had a reason to be loyal to him. _He's loyal to House and he's a bigger ass than I am_, he thought hopefully.

"Okay, okay," Chase soothed. "Just tell me what you want." He had a sinking feeling that things were going to get a lot worse. Neither of these men were mentally stable and they were armed, creating a very dangerous situation.There was a clinic full of innocent bystanders who would be in jeopardy if he and Foreman did not cooperate. The gunman already had the unfair advantage of knowing he was not likely to let people die if he could help it.

Joe stroked Chase's face again. His green eyes were wide with anticipation. "I want you, Dr. Chase." He leaned down and crushed his lips against the young doctor's.

Chase's posture became rigid and he squeezed his eyes shut, telling himself that he could not fight against it or he and Foreman would both die. Joe Smith was licking his lips and trying to push inside his mouth, which he had clenched shut. Giving in enough to save his life did not mean he had to make this easy for the assailant. It felt like a hundred thoughts were swirling around in his mind all at once. The situation itself was settling upon him and the fact that Foreman was watching only made it more humiliating. He wondered if someone would realize there was a problem and stop this before it went further. He wondered exactly how far Joe intended to take this infatuation with him and what the two men would do to get out of the hospital. Were they going to just leave them there or would they kill them and then open fire on anyone else in the waiting room and clinic office? He wished he had never been there to stop Joe from dying.

Frustrated, Joe pulled away and exhaled. "You're not playing right," he accused.

The next thing Chase felt was the barrel of the gun against his temple. "You said you would cooperate."

"I'm trying," Chase whispered. He refused to look at Foreman. He knew he had to block out the other man's presence in order to play the game these two had created. If he let his fear of Foreman's potential to use this to humiliate him in the future stay in his mind he would probably not live to be disparaged by his colleague.

Before Chase could catch his breath, Joe's lips were on him again and soon he was gagging from the clumsy, abrasive intrusion that was supposed to be a kiss.

Suddenly Joe was pulled away from him by the other man. Chase opened his eyes to see what had happened and saw the gunman just as he was slapped with what seemed to be as much strength as the man could muster. Chase stumbled sideways, but was kept from falling by a cabinet full of medical supplies. "Whores never let you kiss them," the gunman announced. He aimed the weapon at Chase's forehead. "Turn around!" he demanded. He took the roll of medical tape from the counter and threw it to Foreman. "Tie his hands behind his back."

Foreman caught the tape instinctively and blankly stared at it for a moment.

"Now! Or I'll shoot your worthless Black ass!" His voice was cold and far too calm for the situation he was creating.

Foreman approached Chase whose back was to him. Chase moved his arms behind his back. He realized Chase had done that to spare him from having to force them into place. He wrapped tape loosely around his wrists and whispered, "I'm sorry," before backing away.

"Get on your knees!" was the next command. He turned to Joe, "Stop playing nice. Just get what we're here for. Hurry up!"

Reluctantly, Chase fell to his knees. It was a less than graceful move since his balance was compromised by the awkward position of his arms. His heart was beating too fast and there was a rushing sound in his ears. _This is not really happening_, he thought. _This is not really happening. _

"You're pathetic," the gunman spat. He turned back to Foreman, "You--get over there and don't let him fall over." He used the firearm as a pointer.

Foreman hesitated, horrified that the men expected him to assist them in whatever they planned to do to Chase. Part of him expected a sign from Chase that it was okay for him to follow the madman's directions, but Chase was staring at the floor. Quickly reminding himself that both of their lives were at stake, he took his place behind Chase to steady him.

What happened next was something Foreman tried to ignore, but could not. He heard Joe tell Chase to open his mouth. He heard Chase softly confessing, "I don't know how." Foreman found himself bracing Chase as Joe Smith rammed himself into the young man's unwilling mouth.

"You'll learn," Joe told him in a low voice. "I'll teach you."

Foreman saw his own hands on Chase's shoulders, holding him steady. At the same time, Joe Smith's hands were tangled in the blond tresses, guiding him in forward, backward, up, down.

Chase was gagging, coughing, and trying to catch his breath while tears were streaming from his eyes. Foreman could tell that the muscles in his back were starting to spasm from the unnatural strain put against his arms and shoulders. He did not know if it was the right or the wrong thing to do, but he squeezed the younger man's shoulders, trying to remind him that he was not alone. He hoped it would not serve to remind him that his coworker was taking part in this attack, albeit by force.

Though it was only a few minutes, it seemed to take forever for Joe Smith to be initially satiated. Foreman checked the clock. It was near 6:00 PM. Surely with the clinic closing soon someone would check the rooms; someone would stop this madness.

Joe released himself and pulled away, collapsing onto the spinning chair that the doctors usually used while talking to their patients.

Chase crumpled against Foreman's legs, his breath ragged. Foreman patted Chase's arm, trying to offer comfort. His muscles jerked again, so Foreman leaned down to tear apart the restraining tape.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the gunman asked.

"This is torture!" Foreman told him. "Please, let me undo his arms." He turned to Joe. "He saved your life. Don't you have any compassion at all?"

"He's not cooperating." The gunman answered.

"Look at him!" Foreman argued. Chase was a broken heap, as silent and still as he could be. If it were not for Foreman's support, he would be curled into himself on the floor. "You got what you wanted. He's not going anywhere."

"It's okay," Joe said to the other man. "I don't want to hurt him."

Foreman resisted the urge to ask what the hell he thought he had just done. His focus was on easing Chase's immediate pain.

"Fine," the gunman approved. But instead of letting Foreman remove the restraints, he lifted Chase by his collar and threw him against the examining table. He laid the gun down momentarily while ripping apart the medical tape. He grabbed the gun again before Foreman even had time to register that he had let a chance to get a hold of it slip away.

Chase was barely standing, leaning limply against the table. His arms fell forward and he reflexively rolled his shoulders to get the blood flowing properly again. His back was to Foreman and he remained quiet.

Foreman watched the other three men, pleading with whatever Force might be listening to do something to end this. Chase was in some sort of daze, his spirit broken. He was trapped by the threat against other innocent people. Joe Smith was still naked from the waist down. The man whose name they did not know was watching Joe, waiting for him to determine what came next.

Joe approached Chase from behind. He grabbed his hair and pushed him face down into the exam table.

Foreman refused to watch. He was perched in the corner, head down, trying to block out the site and sounds of what was being done to his colleague. He dug his hands into his lab coat and felt a small rectangular piece of metal and plastic. He realized he had his cell phone. It was on and the sound was set to vibrate, the way he always kept it when he was working the clinic. He glanced up and saw that the armed man was absorbed by the crime being committed in front of him. Foreman turned his back to block what he was doing. He quickly got to his text messaging center and typed in "2 gnmen xam 4 chase hrt" and sent it to House. If any doctor would ignore the many "No Cell Phone Use" signs, it would be their boss.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Foreman sent his message to House, he questioned if he had done the right thing. In his haste, he had not typed out every word, but he thought it was clear enough. He did not even know how often House would check his phone or if he ever read text messages. _I should have sent it to Cameron_, he thought. She was conscientious enough to check her messages; but possibly conscientious enough to be working instead of wasting time with her phone. _House is our best hope_, he told himself. _I'm an idiot! Pete is always texting somebody or another. He could have called the hospital and told them what I said._ Too late, Foreman thought of one of his friends outside the hospital, a man that lived in the same building as he did. He feared that the gunman would check on him again and he had lost his window of opportunity to covertly communicate with the outside world.

He wanted to scream or to bang on the door or the wall, but he and Chase both knew from the start that yelling for help would only endanger more innocent people. He wondered if he could attack the gunman who was distracted by whatever Joe was doing to Chase. He imagined himself jumping the guy from behind, but in his vision, that only resulted in a bullet through Chase's brain.

With his distorted sense of time, he questioned how it was that he and Chase had been in here for what felt like an hour or more and no one had even attempted to come into the room. He wondered if no one had heard the gunman raise his voice when barking orders or making threats. He wondered how Chase had remained so quiet while he was being attacked. Foreman was sure that one of both of the men had slapped or punched Chase. However, he had to rely on his hearing to guess what was happening because he could not force himself to watch the horror playing out before him. No matter what gruesome sights he had encountered through his medical training, this was not something he was prepared to witness. There was a struggle, something or someone hitting the floor and the base of the examination table, coughing, grunting, laughter, and words that he did not want to comprehend. He wished he could close his ears as well as his eyes.

Still, being trapped in this room was only part of his concern. What was to happen when the two men finished? How did they intend to get out of the clinic?

Foreman kept his back turned until he heard Joe's voice asking clearly, "Are you going to have a go?" He thought he might lose the contents of his stomach then and there.

"No time, we've got to get out of here," the friend answered. "But he is something, isn't he?" It sounded as if his resolve to leave was fading. "No, we've got to get out before anyone gets suspicious. Next time."

_Next time?_ Foreman repeated to himself. The gunman grabbed Foreman's arm, pulling him around to face them. Foreman looked down and focused on Chase's sneakers, realizing that the attackers had not even fully undressed him. He watched quietly, afraid to approach Chase to check on him. He was too quiet. He told himself that no gunshot meant the other man was still alive at least.

Joe pulled on his pants, tucked in his shirt and then slipped his feet into his shoes.

He kneeled down beside Chase and kissed him again, "Thank you," he said. He turned to his friend, "Let's go."

But the friend was eyeing Foreman suspiciously, "As soon as we walk out that door, he's going to call security. We won't make it out of the hospital."

"I won't!" Foreman promised. "My only concern is Chase. As soon as you walk out, I'm going to take care of him."

"I don't think so," the gunman said. Then he kneeled down to Chase and said, "Joe and I are getting out of here. If you say one word, I mean it, _one word _to anyone about what just happened, we'll come back. We'll track you down again. We'll get to you in your home. We know your name; we know where you work; we know where you spend your free time. Next time I'll have a turn too before I use this gun to blow your pretty little head off. I'll kill the black guy and anyone else you care about. Do you understand?" He waited a moment. "Do you understand?" he growled.

Foreman could see Chase nod his head slightly.

"You, get him dressed," he told Foreman who did not hesitate to follow through on that assignment.

He approached Chase and pulled him to his feet as gently as he could. He noted angry red marks on Chase's neck and face. His lips were split and bleeding. There was a gash on his forehead that was still dripping slowly. Locks of his hair were matted with blood and the flesh around his right eye was starting to bruise. Both eyes were alarmingly bloodshot and his head lolled to one side. Foreman questioned himself--how had he kept his back turned while Chase was being beaten and, from the looks of it, strangled. He quickly averted his eyes from the crimson pool on the floor.

"Are you okay?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

Chase did not move a muscle to help or to resist. He allowed Foreman to pull his underwear and jeans into place. He did not react at all when Foreman buttoned and zipped his jeans. He would not look up to meet the other man's eyes. His breathing was shallow and his body was limp, reminding the other man of a poseable doll.

Foreman closed Chase's shirt as best he could with the few buttons that remained intact. It made him shiver to realize that the upper buttons had popped off from the force of having the shirt ripped open while some of the lower ones had not been undone at all. He left the shirt untucked and turned back to the gunman. "He's dressed."

"Fine. Now you're going to walk me and Joe out of this hospital. He can stay here and clean up his mess."

Foreman was not sure what to do next. If he left with these guys, he might not come back alive. If he did not, he would surely be killed and give them incentive to go into the lobby and shoot at any patients or staff that might be there. He nodded. What choice did he have?

He could tell that Chase was wobbling on the spot, probably in shock. The marks on his neck meant he may have been without oxygen at some point. While Foreman could not see his eyes well enough to approximate an assessment of his pupils, he would have wagered that Chase had lost consciousness and had a grade three concussion. "I'll be right back," he promised. "I'll get them out and then I can help you." When he released his grip on Chase, the Aussie slipped right back to the floor.

Foreman was starting to kneel to examine him, but the gunman yanked him up by his labcoat. "You didn't care ten minutes ago, so stop faking it now. Get us out of here now and make it seem nice and friendly," he warned. He slipped the weapon back under his jacket and picked up his briefcase. Nodding to Joe, he said, "Let's go."

Foreman took a deep breath and unlocked the exam room door. "Chase, I'll be right back," he announced, turning back into the room, making sure that someone, anyone had heard him. He noticed that the receptionist looked up when she heard his voice. She returned to flipping through an issue of _Woman's World_.

"I'll show you the way. It's no trouble," he said in a slightly softer tone. He smiled the most sincere fake smile he could. This would not be so difficult. It was a short walk to the hospital exit. He led the men at a brisk pace and then stopped just short of the door. "Here you are," he said. He put his hand out to the gunman, keeping up the ruse of the friendly appearances.

The gunman smiled and took Foreman's hand in a firm shake. "Thank you, Dr. Foreman. We appreciate all your help," he leaned closer. "Call attention to us and I open fire. You get hit first. Got it?"

Foreman nodded. His stomach was churning. "Have a nice day," he said, hoping to end this.

He watched as the two men exited the building and as soon as they were about 15 feet from the door, he turned and bolted back toward the clinic.

"Foreman!" he heard House yell. He turned to see his boss hobbling out of the elevator with Cameron following. "What the hell did this mean?" He held up his cell phone.

"Exactly what it said!" Foreman answered. He did not stand still to engage in conversation, but hurried back to the clinic. "I have to get back!"

He rushed to Exam Room Four. Cameron had caught up with him. House was on his way.

"Are you saying Chase was shot?" Cameron asked, stopping him at the door.

"He was hurt," Foreman answered, pushing the door open. His chest was tight with anxiety as he reentered the room where he had just been held captive. He was greeted with a new view of blood that was splattered across the examination table. To the left of the table, he saw more blood, but Chase was gone. "Where is he?" he asked, panicked. "He was just here. I told him I'd be right back."

"What happened?" House asked, catching up to his fellows. "Chase was shot?"

"Why haven't you called security?" Foreman asked. "What part of _gunmen_ was lost on you? Where the hell is Chase? We have to find him! They couldn't have come back," he reasoned aloud. "I walked them to the door so they wouldn't shoot anyone. They couldn't have come back. It's only been a few minutes. Where is Chase?"

"Slow down!" Cameron exclaimed. "Tell us what happened. Where did the blood come from?" She put her hand on Foreman's arm to calm him, but glanced back at the blood on the floor. The light hit something that caught her eye. Was that a button?

Her calming gesture did not work. "I don't have time. Chase is hurt. We have to find him." He rushed out of the room to the reception desk. "Have you seen Dr. Chase? Which way did he go?" he asked the secretary and nurses who were just waiting for the clock to indicate that it was time to go home.

"I haven't seen him," one nurse answered with a shrug. "I've been with a patient."

"He hasn't signed out," the receptionist said, reviewing the roster.

"I saw him leaving," said another nurse. "I noticed he stumbled on his way out and I asked if he was okay, but didn't even look up when I spoke. I'm not sure he even heard me since I was over by the cooler."

"Out?" Foreman repeated. His heart was starting to race. He turned back to House and Cameron. "I think he has a concussion among other injuries. We have got to find him."

"If he's walking about, he can't be hurt that badly," Cameron offered, trying to appease Foreman's distress, though it was alarming to see Foreman this concerned about his coworker.

"You have no idea," Foreman snapped. He broke into a run, exiting the clinic and racing toward the elevators. Cameron did a good job keeping up with him and House lagged behind.

"Would you stop for a minute and tell me what's wrong?" House asked, doing his best to catch up with the others.

The elevator did not come quickly enough for Foreman, so he sprinted to the stairs and took them two at a time on his way up to their floor. Cameron ran behind him, but House waited for the elevator. As it was, they all arrived on the Diagnostics floor at the same time.

"Stop!" House yelled when Foreman pushed open the door of the stairwell.

"If Chase is wandering around in a bloody mess, someone would stop him and help him," Cameron offered, catching her breath.

"This time of day all the nine to fivers have left," House argued. "The third shift nurses are busy with their first patient rounds. Everyone is so caught up in themselves that he could have gone just about anywhere without anyone stopping to say hello much less stopping him to see if he needed help."

Foreman thought about Chase staggering through the halls with no one noticing that he needed help and had an epiphany. "I think I know where he went!"

"Where, then?" House asked. The only time he had seen Foreman panic was when his own life was on the line. Given that the neurologist did not necessarily like or respect Chase, House was certain that something serious had happened to the young doctor.

"The showers." Foreman answered, barely focused on his colleagues. "I have to check the showers."

"Why the shower?" Cameron was flushed from her race up the stairs. "He probably went to the emergency room to get help."

"No," Foreman answered. "He doesn't want help. He wants to get cleaned up." His pace had slowed considerably as he led his teammates toward the doctors' lounge. "The first thing most rape victims want to do is take a shower."

_Disclaimer: House, M.D. is owned by David Shore, Universal, NBC, etc. No profit made or sought. _


	4. Chapter 4

The water pouring over him was almost unbearably hot. Chase braced himself by leaning his left arm against the wall with his forehead resting on his arm. He stared at his feet. They were turning pink from the heat and clashed terribly with the mint green tiles. They were not clean. How could his feet be clean when he was standing in a semi-public shower? The only logical thing to do was to find a brush or sponge and scrub the shower, but that would have to wait until the walls stopped swaying back and forth. He lifted his head and took the soap in his hand, but vertigo made it impossible for him to do anything more than lean his head forward once more so he would not fall. The soap fell to the floor and he did not give it another thought.

He heard someone crying, but knew it could not be him. He was not aloud to make a sound. His shoulders jerked and his upper body shook while tears mingled with water droplets. He touched his right hand to his neck. His throat felt like it was on fire.

Images and sensations started to flood into his mind: being flung against the examining table, Joe was standing behind him, twisting his arm and pushing his chest down onto the mat. He heard Joe's voice breathing into his ear, "Make a sound and your friend dies." If he had explained that Foreman was not really his _friend_, per say, and that Foreman treated him like a sycophantic idiot, it would not have made a difference. He would have sacrificed himself for a complete stranger if it had been necessary. It was his fault that these maniacs were in the hospital with the potential to kill him or others. So Chase nodded. He would be quiet. And he was quiet while Joe's hands wandered under his shirt and he was quiet while Joe bit his neck. He did not make a sound when Joe spun him around to face him.

He made the mistake of trying to jerk away when Joe's hand reached for the button on his jeans. "You're not playing right!" Joe complained. He was promptly punished with a very hard slap, followed by a barrage of fists. He fell to the floor and Joe came down on top of him. Joe grabbed Chase's collar and lifted him slightly only to slam him back into the floor. Chase's head was spinning and seemed disconnected from the rest of his body. The next thing he was aware of was Joe's hands gripping his neck and thumbs pressing harder and harder into his windpipe. Chase grabbed the other man's wrists, pushing against him, trying to get precious air back into his lungs, but his struggle weakened with every second that passed.

Air did not matter anymore. He was floating through warmth, surrounded by a glow that would have paled sunlight dancing off of newly fallen snow. Breath was irrelevant, unnecessary. He was safe and content to keep moving into the light.

Then the air he no longer craved was forced into his lungs and with it came a rush of pains and a suffocating fear. His body shook with coughing, resisting and welcoming oxygen at the same time. He wanted the light again. Here he understood exactly what the phrase _God forsaken _meant. He wanted to go back _there_.

He heard Joe's voice, "Amazing, isn't it?" Chase had no idea what was supposed to be amazing.

Chase stifled a scream that was trying to escape as he mourned the humiliating control Joe had exercised over him.

"Chase!" someone was yelling for him. He did not want to be found. He could envision a swirling black pit nearby. That was where he wanted to go, somewhere that no one else could find, a place where no one else could reach him.

House, Foreman, and Cameron had discovered the trail of clothing he had left. They could tell that he had undressed as he approached the shower rather than taking his clothes off at once. He had left behind his sneakers, then his socks, then his jeans, then his shirt and, last, his underwear by the door of the shower.

The room was filled with steam from the heat of the water. The mirror was foggy and the counter was damp from condensation.

"Cameron, bag his clothes," House instructed. "Evidence." Though showering was one thing Chase should not have done before getting medical attention, House intended to make sure they could still build a solid case against the maniacs that raped his junior. "Then get out. Call Cuddy and the police. Have security keep anyone from going into that exam room."

Cameron hesitated, glancing at the shower. They could hear Chase crying and she felt that she needed to do something to help him.

"Now!" House ordered and Cameron scurried into action.

Chase had not gotten himself a towel to use to dry off or a change of clothes for whenever he finished his shower. He was not thinking that far in advance. House opened the linen closet to get some towels and then turned to Foreman, "Go find a hospital gown and a wheelchair. Or two wheelchairs. You're going to have to be examined too."

"I'm fine," Foreman argued. "They didn't hurt me."

"Just get the damn chair," House said, sending Foreman on his way. The oddity of Foreman escaping unscathed was not lost on him.

House approached the shower and had the decency to knock. "Chase," he called.

The only response was the sound of the water flowing. "Chase, I know what happened. We need to take care of you."

Chase shook his head to refuse help without any consideration of the fact that House could not see him.

"I have a towel for you," House offered. "Turn off the shower so you can dry off."

He did not. He was safe in the shower and, at the moment, staying there forever seemed possible.

"Chase," With much effort, House refrained from raising his voice and demanding that he was obeyed.

Foreman arrived with a wheelchair, a hospital gown, and a blanket. He saw that House was trying to talk Chase into treatment and quietly pushed the wheelchair to a spot near House.

"Go find Cuddy and tell her how this happened," House told him in a low voice. "Cooperate when she wants to have you examined. I'll get him out of here eventually."

He turned back to the shower, "Chase, don't make me flush the toilet." If the truth be told, he was a little mystified that the hot water had lasted as long as it had. If all else failed, he could wait for Chase to be forced out by the water when it became uncomfortably cold.

He still got no response. There was a way he could logically excuse intruding on the young man's shower. "Chase, if you don't turn off that shower and come out by the time I count to three I'm going to assume you've done something to hurt yourself and I'm coming in." He started his count with a respectable pause between each number.

When House reached _three_, he opened the creaky shower door, reached in and turned off the water, getting his own shirt sleeves wet. He expected Chase to recoil, to yell at him, to push him away, to _react_, but there was nothing. Chase did not move. He was leaning against the wall, wet hair plastered to his head, water dripping from his battered body.

House pulled Chase forward so that he could see his face. Chase would not hold eye contact, but House could see that his pupils were dilated and his eyes were bloodshot. His face was a canvas of red gashes and purple splotches. The appearance of his neck was even more alarming. The bruising pattern was consistent with strangulation.

House wrapped a towel around the trembling man, "You know I can't hoist you over my shoulder and carry you out of here, so you have to help me help you."

Chase nodded slightly which House took as a positive sign. His patient was not completely unresponsive.

Since Chase did not seem to know exactly what to do with the towel, House helped him dry himself well enough to slip into the gown. "You have a concussion," he told him. "That's one reason you're confused. Post traumatic stress is another reason." While he led Chase to the wheelchair, he did what he knew how to do best, diagnosing. "Come on and sit down. Your neck doesn't look so good. Can you tell me what happened?"

_He choked me_, Chase thought. But the words did not reach his tongue. His teeth began chattering.

House saw Chase look up, but there was no answer. He helped Chase cover himself with the blanket, frowning. He could not tell at this point if Chase's silence was a reaction to emotional trauma or physical trauma. Was he unable to speak or was he unable to process the questions and the answers? Was this brain damage, trachea damage, or psychological damage? How much more damage would he find when he got Chase into an examination room?

_Anonymous reviewing has been enabled per suggestion._


	5. Chapter 5

Chase kept his head down while House pushed the wheelchair though the hall leading from the doctor's lounge to an examining room. It must have been an odd sight for those who were familiar with Dr. House. Not only was he with a patient, he was using the wheelchair for support, while said patient held House's cane across the armrests of the chair. He heard one person ask in a bare attempt at a whisper, "Is that Doctor Chase?" He pulled the blanket tighter across his chest.

Footsteps approached quickly and Chase heard Cameron's voice as she caught up to them, "Is he okay?"

"No, you idiot. He's not okay," House snapped.

Unaffected, Cameron told him, "I have an exam room ready."

Chase cringed and sunk deeper into his chair. He did not want to be examined and he certainly did not want Cameron to exam him. Or House. Or Foreman. Or Wilson. Or Cuddy. Or Nurse Brenda. He mentally checked every staff member that came to mind, deciding that anyone he saw on a regular basis was out of the question. Therefore, the exam was out of the question. He wanted to go home, but could not find the words to tell them. He worried that something was dreadfully wrong with his throat. It had never before hurt this much.

He felt Cameron's hand on his shoulder, patting him. "It's going to be okay," she said.

The pressure of her hand reminded him of Foreman's hands on his shoulders while Joe was "teaching" him to perform oral sex. He asked himself if that had really happened, if any of this was real. Tears began to slip down his cheeks as those memories rushed into his thoughts, but he only looked down, ashamed. If he wiped his eyes, they would know he was crying.

House saw that Chase was crying at the mention of the exam. He did not begrudge him the experience. Collecting the medical evidence of rape could seem as invasive at the act itself to a patient who had just survived such a violent crime. It could take longer than the assault itself in some cases. "Chase, you know you have to let us do this."

Chase nodded. He had to let Joe do what he wanted. Otherwise, Foreman would be killed.

"This will help us catch them." House assured him.

Chase shook his head, "no." If they tried to catch them, they would come back and kill Foreman, find House and Cameron and kill them. They would rape him again, both of them _next time_, and then kill him too.

"We will find them," Cameron offered optimistically. "There are policemen downstairs investigating. We'll run DNA tests."

House glared at her. DNA tests would require DNA evidence which he was going to have to procure via an exam, the prospect of which he believed had Chase in tears again.

"Cuddy is with Foreman. She wanted to personally make sure he was alright before he gave his statement to the police. I'm sure she'll be here soon to help," Cameron informed House. "I told her what Foreman said they did." She was a ball of nervous energy, obviously rattled by what had happened and coping the best way she could by offering facts and trying to be nurturing and positive. She patted Chase's shoulder again, but never made an attempt to look him in the eye. "The head of security is--"

"Would you stop talking?" House demanded. The constant chatter and the tone of her voice was maddening. "Didn't I tell you to leave?" He knew that given their history Cameron would likely be the last person Chase would want holding his hand during an exam. Actually, _he_ might be the last. Or Foreman. Then again, Cameron had the ex-lover status, so that might trump the rest of them.

Chase was relieved that House had told Cameron to shut up and leave, but before she had moved or even wished him well, more hurried footsteps and raised voices approached.

"I told you I'm fine!" Foreman asserted, walking briskly away from Cuddy who was following just behind him. Her heels were clickling against floor lightly with every step.

"Physically. You will talk to one of the staff psychiatrists," Cuddy was arguing.

"I have to find--"

Their sudden silence indicated that they had just realized Foreman had found the person he was seeking. Chase closed his eyes, wishing he could make them all go away. Better still would be if _he_ could go away.

He felt Cuddy's soft hand on his arm. She was kneeling beside him, "Dr. Chase, I'm so sorry this happened."

He did not open his eyes and turned his face away from her, shaking his head just a bit so his damp hair would fall forward and make a curtain between them.

"All of you, stop swarming!" House demanded loud enough that any other bystanders would make themselves scarce. He realized that Chase did not feel comfortable with so many people crowding around him. Yet, _he_ was supposed to be the insensitive one. "Cameron, go away. Run labs. File your nails, just _go_."

Cameron's mouth fell open. She looked like she wanted to argue that she only wanted to help, but House's expression told her one more word was too many.

House turned to his neurologist, "Foreman, go to the psych ward and check yourself in."

Foreman ignored House and approached Chase, the opposite side of where Cuddy was now standing. It was the first time they had been together since he had walked the two men to their escape. "Chase, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."

This time Chase turned away from Foreman, but he opened his eyes. Cuddy was wearing coral colored pumps. He thought that he remembered seeing her in a coral blouse earlier that day. That seemed like a different lifetime. He tried to remember what color her skirt was, but could not quite see up to her knees without looking up and that would require too much effort. _It's probably white or off white. She wears a lot of white._

"This is not about you right now," House barked.

Foreman huffed and turned to face his boss. He leaned in close to House and said in a low voice, "Don't make him lay flat on his stomach."

His voice was not low enough to keep Chase from hearing what he said. Chase felt like he was floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. He was having a hard time breathing, on the floor, his stomach pressed against the cold tiles, Joe's weight on top of him, his legs encumbered by his own clothing. The pain was unbearable.

House thought of telling Foreman that at least one of them was not an idiot, but before he could make his snarky remark, he realized Chase was starting to hyperventilate.

Cuddy began rubbing her open palm in soft circles on Chase's back, "Calm down," she soothed. "You're okay. Shhh." With her other hand, she rubbed his arm. "You're safe now," she whispered.

"I was only trying to help," Foreman said, sounding sincerely apologetic. "I didn't think he would hear me." He turned and left quickly so that he would not influence Chase to have any more unbearable memories.

"That's not the way to the psych ward," House shouted.

Cuddy looked up, glaring at House. "He's been through hell too."

House glanced back at Foreman and down to Chase who was trembling, though his breathing had almost returned to normal. "So what? Mummy and Daddy shouldn't play favorites. How did he walk out of there without so much as a scratch?"

"You would rather he was in the same condition?" Cuddy asked sharply. She did not say Chase's name but her eyes indicated him.

"Of course not," House answered. "Why are we still in this hallway?" The encounters had taken only minutes, but a group of doctors should have been more focused on examining the patient. He pushed Chase's chair forward, realizing Cameron had not told him which exam room was ready. "_He needs medical attention _and the three of you won't back off." His frustration was growing exponentially.

"You're right." Cuddy told him, acknowledging the priority. "Follow me." She led him to the exam room that Cameron had prepared.

House pushed the wheelchair into the room and stopped it by the examination table.

Chase's eyes were wide and the color had rushed from his face, making the bruises and gashes only stand out more.

"Cuddy and I are going to do the examination," House took his cane so that he could support himself. "We're going to do everything we can to catch those bastards." He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a box that was hanging on the wall, supported by a metal bracket.

"Chase, I know this isn't pleasant, but we're going to try our best to not hurt you in any way." Cuddy assured him.She also put on a pair of gloves.

Chase only stared at her, more lucid at the moment, and aware that he was getting special treatment. Most rape victims were seen in the emergency room by whatever doctor, nurse, or intern was available. The luky ones got a SANE nurse. He was being treated by the head of diagnostics and the dean of medicine. They either cared or they wanted to keep him from filing a lawsuit about the slack security.

"Do you understand?" Cuddy asked. Only then did she realize that he had not said anything at all since she had arrived.

Chase nodded.

"Is there anyone that we need to call for you? Next of kin?"

"All dead," House answered. _American Dream_, he thought with a huff. _Come to the land of the free and the home of the deranged. _

"We can get a crisis counselor to stay with you if you want to have an advocate," she offered. "I'll call someone," she said, making the decision for him as she started to turn away to reach for the phone.

He shook his head, refusing the offer.

"Can you speak?" she asked Chase.

He touched his neck, pointing out to her the bruises that Joe's hands had left.

"It looks like he was strangled," House told her, though his explanation was not needed once Chase looked up and she could see the bruising. "There might be a larygeal fracture."

"Or," Cuddy started, but stopped herself. Foreman had made a brief statement to the police while she was there. Before they started gathering evidence, he had told them that the two assailants had threatened to kill him and everyone else Chase cared about if Chase said anything about what had happened to anyone. He would have to make a more detailed statement the next morning, but Cuddy had insisted that Foreman also be examined before she would free him to make the formal statement. She noted to herself to share what he had said with House when, or if, they ruled out physical causes for the muteness. House also needed to know that the men had threatened to find Chase again, including alluding to knowing where he lived.

House patted the examination table. "Do you need some help getting up here?"

Chase looked at him and at the table. It was the same ugly beige color as the one in Exam Room Four. His hand went to his neck, covering the place Joe had first bit him. He was disgusted with himself for not fighting, for letting it all happen.

House noticed that Chase's respiration was becoming increasingly shallow and rapid. He approached Chase and stood close to him. "Do you want a different doctor? It's okay if you do."

Chase did not nod or shake his head. He just stared at House with fear-filled, bloodshot blue eyes.

Assuming that Chase was too scared to admit that he did not want to be examined by him, House started to turn away, "I can get Wilson or--" he started.

Chase reached out and grabbed his wrist. _House has to stay._

House looked down at his patient. He was shaking his head, asking him to not get Wilson. He wanted House to stay. Chase's eyes darted from House to the examination table. He bit his lips together as if he was trying very hard to keep from losing control of his emotions.

"You're scared?" House asked.

Chase looked down and then up again, conveying to House that he was ashamed and that he was frightened too.

"Of course you're afraid. That's normal. It's okay to be normal. You know this part is difficult. You also know that you need to do this for _you_. We need to know how badly you're hurt. I'm not talking about the sexual assault alone. You were also beaten and choked. You've lost blood." He saw understanding and acceptance in Chase's eyes. "Does it hurt to move?"

Chase looked down again. House assumed that this was his way of saying, "yes" to something that he was embarrassed to admit.

"Here," Cuddy offered him her arm. She was astounded at the way the two men could communicate. House was exceptionally perceptive and Chase was startlingly expressive with his eyes and gestures. "We'll help you." She supported Chase as he stood on weak legs and made the short trip for the wheelchair to the examination table. She made sure he did not stumble as he took the step.

His head started spinning as he stood up and he winced as he sat down. A blush crept onto his face.

"I should remind you that you have the same protections of confidentiality as any other patient," Cuddy offered, sensing his embarrassment. "We're not going to discuss your case with anyone, including other employees of this hospital." She patted his arm again, "I can tell you from personal experience that House can keep medical issues private. Don't worry about that."

He nodded, grateful for her insight and her response to his needs.

"Let's slip this down, okay?" she lightly tugged on the collar of his gown and it fell to his lap, where he pulled it tighter across himself. He shivered when air hit his exposed skin.

"Are you cold?" Cuddy asked rhetorically. She took the blanket he had had draped over him and allowed him to wrap it over his legs. With wet hair and bare feet, he probably was chilled. The blanket could be moved as needed and it would give him some small bit of privacy.

House started the exam by shining a very bright light into his eyes. "Pupils are dilated. Follow my finger." Chase attempted to follow as House moved, but he could not adjust his eyes to the task. "Note that several small vessels have burst in his eyes and that he has a concussion," House told Cuddy. "The blood in your eyes is most likely related to loss of oxygenation while being choked," he told Chase. "If not for the glaring bruises around your neck, I'd be more concerned about the source of the blood." He knew Chase knew these things, but felt compelled to explain it anyway.

"I need to do a laryngoscopy to check the damage to your throat. Before I do that, I need to swab your mouth." He did not explain that the swabbing was taking precedence so any of Joe's DNA still in Chase's mouth would not be compromised. They all knew the reason and none of them wanted it acknowledged.

Cuddy handed House two swabs that looked like overgrown Q-tips. "Use one for upper and one for lower."

"I need you to open your mouth," House told him.

_I don't know how_, Chase thought. Joe was going to teach him how to use his mouth and then make sure he never opened it again. He turned away from House.

Then House's hand was on his jaw, softly guiding him back to face the doctors. "I know this is difficult. But we need you to open your mouth."

Foreman needed him to do this. He closed his eyes and forced his lips barely apart. They were sticky and dry from being held shut for so long.

House used the handle of the swab to push Chase's lower jaw down and open his mouth a bit wider so he could work. He swabbed the upper portion of his mouth first and bagged it. Then he swabbed the lower portion of his mouth. This caused an immediate gag reflex. His shoulders jerked and he turned away to try to keep from vomiting on his boss. Cuddy had a bedpan ready and held it for Chase to throw up the contents of his stomach.

The considerable pain in his throat before could not compare to the agony he now felt for having the acidic liquid forced out in spasms. The pain brought fresh tears to his eyes, though he was not sure he had ever completely stopped crying. He looked back at House with an apologetic expression. Even through the pain his throat was magnified, his stomach felt a tiny bit better.

House shrugged. "Nausea goes with concussions," he offered. They all suspected the gag reflex was a response to the trauma Chase had endured, but it had been kind of House to offer an alternative explanation that was less humiliating. "You're not the first patient to throw up on me." He turned to Cuddy who was taking the bedpan to the sink. "Hey, we can analyze that."

She arched one eyebrow and set the putrid yellow pan on the counter next to the sink.

"I bet that hurt like a bitch," House continued. He touched Chase's throat, applying light pressure to feel for any abnormality. His eyes lingered a moment on what was an obvious bite mark near his right shoulder. "Laryngoscopy," he said, turning his attention back to the most severe injuries.

Chase nodded. It was an altogether unpleasant experience. He had to allow House to use a set of mirrors to see down his throat. House sprayed some anesthetic into his mouth to keep the gag reflex under control. The instruments in his mouth brought back sensations that he wanted to forget. The exam took a few minutes and then House removed his lighted headgear. "We're going to do a soft-tissue neck x-ray and a chest x-ray. We need to do a CT scan of your brain. I want an MRI. We need to check the brain and spinal chord."

House continued. "We'll also be keeping you here for a while to monitor for cardiac arrhythmias, acute respiratory distress syndrome, mental status changes. You were obviously without oxygen for a brief period of time and there may be lingering effects."

Chase shook his head thinking, _All of that is not necessary._

"Don't argue with me. Oh, wait, you can't. Cuddy, do you agree with me?"

"Of course," Cuddy answered. "We'll take every precaution. Does anything hurt as if it might be broken or fractured?" she asked.

Chase shook his head, but pointed to his throat. There was pain, yes, but he did not believe he had any broken bones. His lower back was aching, but he was too embarrassed to tell them that.

"What does that mean?" House asked, trying to read the conflicting body language of _no_ and _my neck_. "Nothing is severe but your throat?"

He nodded.

"One to ten?" Cuddy said. Chase would know she was asking for a pain ranking. He shrugged and held up 5 fingers.

"Underestimating much?" House asked suspiciously. "You get Vicodin!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out an amber bottle. He took out one and offered it to Chase. Chase took it in his hand, but realizing it was a rather large pill, he was unsure that he would be able to swallow it.

House took the pill away from him and swallowed it. "Don't worry. We'll get you a shot of something. It won't be as tasty as this."

Chase offered him a hint of a smile. He appreciated that House was not treating him like he was about to break, even if that was not too far from reality.

Cuddy was hesitant, but picked up a digital camera that was on the counter. "We should take some photos of the injuries, you know. It's not something that you have to allow us to do, but it will certainly help your case."

Chase felt nauseated again. Pictures were permanent. There would forever be a file with his name and pictures of the damage his body suffered if he agreed to this.

"They'll be in kept on a disk in a sealed envelope in your medical file which is confidential. Only if you press charges will they be used for anything."

He nodded. She took several photos of his face and neck.

With the most pressing concerns evaluated, they moved to more routine aspects of the exam.

"I'm going to take some blood and get your bp and heart rate," Cuddy told him. She put a plastic sensor on his finger and wrapped a black band around his arm. "Heart rate and blood pressure are elevated," she announced. "We'll need to monitor his vitals closely." She removed the sphygmomanometer.

Cuddy continued. "We should take some blood from an artery to check blood gasses because of the choking." She had placed several empty vials on the countertop. Chase willingly offered his arm and watched as she prepped his wrist. The deep prick was painful, but he had been through much worse today. Then, she tied a rubber tourniquet around his arm above the elbow, wiped a spot with alcohol, pricked him with a small needle and filled more vials. She then dabbed the bleeding spot with a piece of cotton before covering it with a bandage.

_A Band-Aid_, he thought. Somehow it seemed vastly inefficient given the wounds he had. _They don't make them big enough._

Cuddy brought some antiseptic wipes, bandages, and antibiotic salve from one of the shelves. "Here, let me clean these up." She gingerly dabbed a wipe across the gashes on his forehead and under his eye and across his lips. "This might sting a bit." She spread a tiny bit of the salve across each wound. "These are superficial. No need for stitches."

"Good, no scarring that pretty face," House said.

Chase felt like someone had kicked him right in the stomach. _The pretty one with the accent. He's pretty. I'll use this gun to blow your pretty little head off._ He was unaware that he had begun shaking.

"Is he seizing?" Cuddy asked. Both concussions and strangulation could cause seizures. She immediately pushed him backwards and held his arms down. "Get a--"

House pulled her off of him. "I think he's having a flashback."

"People don't usually shake like this." Screaming, crying, rocking back and forth and the zoning out he had demonstrated intermittently were more common reactions to traumatic memories.

He cut her off again, "I think I triggered it." He whispered, "They probably called him _pretty_." He cursed himself for not thinking. "It's his nerves. Do that soothing thing you do."

Cuddy decided to accept House's theory, realizing that it was possible that the shaking was a nervous reaction. Chase's cognizance of the present situation had been questionable at times. He was not fully with them. "Get me a cool wet cloth." She started rubbing his arms gently, "You're safe now," she said softly. House handed her the cloth and she pressed it to his forehead.

The cold, wet sensation helped bring Chase away of his memories of the attackers and back to House and Cuddy. He was still trembling. Everything felt wrong for him. The ceiling was too high. The lights above him were too bright. The air touching his skin was too cold. Cuddy was too comforting. House was too nice. The memories were still swirling too close to the surface, threatening to pull him into them again.

"Try to relax," House urged. "I'm going to take your hand and scrape this under your fingernails." He held up a small metal instrument.

Chase knew this was to procure any DNA evidence that he might have retained while defending himself. He imagined Joe's tiny DNA markers swimming under his fingernails and it made him feel dirty and smothered. _Get off of me!_ he screamed in his mind. But Cuddy was still beside him, holding that cloth against his forehead. He felt like he was being held down. He did not fight against it when House took his other hand and repeated the process. _Good boy_, he heard Joe's voice.

There was a long pause after House let Chase's hand fall back in place. "Do you think you're ready for the rest of the exam?" House asked hesitantly.

Chase's eyes rolled from House to Cuddy to an upward position. No, he would never be ready for this, but he nodded his head once. House pulled up the blanket that had been covering him from the waist down. He arranged it to allow Chase to keep his chest covered. Somehow being naked in halves seemed a little more comforting than being examined completely nude.

"You're doing fine," Cuddy encouraged. She gave in to the urge to stroke his hair lightly. She guided him to turn onto his side and said, "This is almost over," in a compassionate voice. Chase closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to not think about the exam.

He knew Cuddy was wrong. This was not almost over. Joe and his friend knew his name, where he worked, where he lived, and the people that he cared about.

It took a several minutes for House to complete the process, including taking more photographs for evidence. When he finished, House let Chase cover himself with the blanket again. "As I mentioned, we're going to do an MRI, CT scan, and some x-rays. We're covering all the basics and maybe more. We'll run labs on the blood and on samples. We have to check for STDs. You will, of course, have to be rechecked over a period of time. But you're going to have the advantage of antiretroviral post-exposure prophylaxis immediately. Your odds of not contracting AIDS, even if he was a carrier, are good. I'm going to start you on a round of antibiotics to help with infections." He stopped, disheartened. "I'll let you read your own file." He knew that Chase knew he had been hurt physically. He also knew Chase would appreciate at least a little bit of privacy and, to that end, he was even willing to write out case notes. Every detail of the physical results of the attack was one more reason for a jury to convict the men who were responsible. Chase had much healing to do physically and emotionally. This ordeal was far from over.

AN: Please take a minute to let me know what you think! Thanks.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: House MD is owned by Universal. No profit made/no profit sought. _

The series of x-rays and tests that House had ordered had taken only four hours. Had the incident occurred earlier in the day, they would likely had to have waited that long just to get to use the MRI. House suspected that the shot of pain medication they had given him was the only reason Chase had not broken away from them and demanded to take another shower.

Chase had been lucid enough at times to realize he was moving through the tests quickly. He was suspiciously aware that he was getting special treatment. Both House and Cuddy had followed him through the extensive battery of tests, keeping his interactions with other staff members at a minimum.

Cameron had hovered about and said she would be willing to stay with Chase overnight. Contrary to popular belief one did not have to be kept awake after a concussion, but did need to be woken at regular intervals to check mental status. Since House knew that the next dose of pain medication would ensure that Chase would not remember who was waking him, he let Cameron stay. He had kept Chase's file tucked under his arm when he left. "This is going with me."

"But I need to amend the notes each time I wake him," she argued.

"So find some Post It notes," House told her, suspecting that she wanted to read the file to satisfy her own curiosity. Chase's assault had been witnessed by one of his coworkers and House refused to allow the other access to the details. Patient-sitting would keep her occupied, satisfy her need to be needed, and allow him time to get Foreman's version of what had happened.

On the way out of Chase's private room, House met a policeman. He approached House purposefully.

"Are you the attending physician for Robert Chase?" he asked.

"Yes, I am." House answered. "And my patient is not ready for visitors."

"I need to get a statement from him." The officer continued. It appeared that he had been waiting for hours and was long past due his time to go home for the day.

"Good luck," House responded, irritated that the officer had ignored him. He attempted to keep walking, but was stalled by the man's question.

"What do you mean?"

"He's dumb," House answered.

The officer blinked and looked past House. He could not see into the room because Cameron had shut the blinds. "I thought he was a doctor."

House rolled his eyes. "He is."

"He's a dumb doctor?" The officer asked, bewildered.

"The brightest of any of my fellows," House replied, putting considerable effort into not laughing. The corner of his mouth twitched.

The officer looked as though he might be contemplating what this meant about the rest of House's fellows.

"He's _mute_, you moron," House snapped. "He was strangled and suffered considerable damage to his trachea and larynx, that is _throat_ in layman's terms. He physically can't give you a statement. _And_ he's knocked out on a blissfully high dose of pain medication."

"Oh," the man responded sheepishly.

"Leave me your card and I'll call you when I've cleared him to speak."

"Any idea on when that will be?"

"Nope," House answered shortly. "I have other patients," he lied. "Stay away from Dr. Chase." He did not give the man opportunity to protest.

House went back to the diagnostics office where he found Foreman waiting. The man looked lost. House paused, then shut the door and joined Foreman at the conference table. "I'm surprised you're still here." He was not sure what he had expected of Foreman, certainly not for him to check himself into the psychiatric ward despite the orders to do so. It was very late and Foreman could have gone home hours ago if not for some sense of obligation to stay.

Foreman looked up. His brown eyes were glistening with guilt, but he had not shed a single tear. He did not wait for House to goad him into talking, "I let it happen," he admitted. A full cup of coffee sat next to him on the table and the coffee in the pot smelled like it had been sitting for a long time.

House said nothing, waiting to see what Foreman wanted to tell him first. He set Chase's file down in front of him.

"That guy, not Joe, the other one, he had a gun."

"Joe? You know their names?" House asked. It was the first time he had heard a name associated with the attack.

"Not really," Foreman answered. "The patient filled in his paperwork as Joe Smith. No insurance. That's what we get for having a damn free clinic."

"So he gave a fake address, phone number, and social security number," House reasoned.

"Right," Foreman agreed. "They could have killed us. I swear to God, House, I didn't know what to do to stop them. All I could think of was them shooting Chase if I interfered." He fell silent.

"So, what did you do?" House asked. He was still curious about how Foreman had gotten out of the situation without harm while Chase had been nearly killed.

Foreman looked down, ashamed. "Nothing. Not a damn sonofabitching thing." He only wished that were true, but he was not ready to admit that he had taken his orders and helped them men attack his colleague.

House wondered how much of a lie Foreman was telling. "Tell me what you remember. First of all, if Joe was your patient, why did you call Chase in the first place?"

"They asked for him," he said. He recounted the story of Chase saving the man's life previously, complete with his suspicions of their exaggerations. "The other guy commented that Joe hadn't been able to stop thinking about him."

"What exactly did they say about Chase? How did they identify him so that you knew which doctor they were looking for?"

"He asked for _the blond guy with an accent_."

"Wait a second. Joe was in anaphylactic shock when Chase saved his life. If he was at the point of needing a half-assed tracheotomy, he should have been unconscious from lack of oxygen, probably cyanotic for Chase to take such drastic measures before the ambulance arrived. How the hell did he know the doctor had blond hair and an accent?"

Foreman shrugged. "His friend told him about Chase?" he offered.

"No," House shook his head. "There's more to it than that. If Joe was obsessed with Chase to the point of tracking him down here, he's probably been watching him. He usually has clinic rotation on Thursdays. They came today expecting to get to see Chase. But I bet he'd been watching Chase prior to that. What club were they in?"

"No idea," Foreman answered.

"What caused the anaphylaxis?"

"Don't know."

House was silent. "What if he faked it?"

"You can't fake anaphylactic shock, at least not to the point of getting someone to cut your throat open."

"Okay, what if he induced it? Say he's allergic to shellfish, but ate a shrimp to get Chase's attention."

"That's sick."

House glared.

"It's _suicidal,_" Foreman added.

"True. And it's not like Chase wears his lab coat to bars. He doesn't, does he? That's one way to pick up chicks," he commented, his mind darting to the picture of Chase in a dance club wearing lab coat with girls swarming around him. He shook away the image and continued, "Maybe Joe didn't know Chase was a doctor, had seen him out after hours and the medical crisis made him latch onto the idea of Chase. Hero worship."

"Most people don't attempt to kill their heroes."

"John Lennon," House replied.

"You're saying Chase has a deranged fan?"

"No, I'm saying that it's possible for someone to want to kill their hero. I don't think Joe wanted to kill him. You're the one assuming that murder was a possibility. Joe had the chance and came close to murder when he strangled Chase. The other man could have killed him with one shot to the head. I think Joe wanted to own him, like a game where Chase is the prize."

That triggered Foreman's memory. "A game? Joe said something like Chase was not _playing right _a few times. And he _was_ acting like Chase was some kind of prize." House's word fit. He recalled the scene when Chase had first came into the room. "He was practically gushing about Chase being _pretty_ and _smart_ and _kind_"

"What about the other guy? What was his function?"

"Holding the gun, making threats, doing most of the talking," Foreman answered. "He was more hostile, more angry. He didn't care if they hurt Chase. They tied his hands behind his back for a while and I tried to undo it because it was awkward and painful. The one guy got mad at me about trying to help Chase, but Joe said he didn't want to hurt him. Still, that's exactly what he did." He could not quite reconcile that Joe was the one who was willing to untie Chase's arms, but also the one who carried out the physical and sexual assault.

"So you're telling me the gunman was the _aggressive_ one and the rapist was the," he searched for a fitting comparison which he could not find, "_more compassionate _one?" House frowned. Joe sounded like he had some psychiatric issues which any defense attorney would exploit, much to the detriment of Chase's case if it ever got to that point.

"Um, yeah," Foreman assented. "I wouldn't say it was like Joe was submissive, but the other guy was dominate. He was telling the rest of us what to do."

"I can understand him ordering around you and Chase, but what did he tell Joe?" The relationship between the two men had become fascinating.

"Well, he told Joe to stop trying to kiss Chase because whores don't let you kiss them. He told Joe to get what they came for. He told Chase he was here to get Joe what Joe wanted. It's almost like he was the instigator, even if he wasn't the attacker. He was into watching, I guess."

"He called Chase a whore and saw him as nothing more than an object to be used."

"And Joe was acting like he was some kind of precious, er, prize, like you said."

"What else did they say to each other?" House quizzed. Perhaps there were clues to their identities hidden in their conversation.

"Um," Foreman searched for the right words, a bit embarrassed to talk about it. "Joe finished and asked the other guy if he was going to, _you know_, too and he said that they didn't have time." His stomach gave a lurch, "He said he'd have his turn next time."

"Next time?" House repeated.

"He told Chase that he knew where they could find him--work, home, free time. He said that if Chase said anything to anyone that they would track him down, kill me and anyone else he cared about, do _that_ again and then kill him. Honestly, I don't think they even knew Chase's name when they came in. But they know it now and can use that knowledge to find him now."

House cursed. There were two ways to interpret that: a scare tactic to keep Chase from filing a report or a very real intention from two deranged stalkers. The second option seemed more likely, given the warped relationship Foreman was painting of the two men and the measures they had taken to entrap Chase.

House filed away the bit about not saying anything to anyone to examine it later. The weight of that statement in consideration with Chase's silence was not lost him, but not the part of the puzzle he was focused on at the moment. Right now Chase had a medical reason for his muteness. He wondered if the gunman had conceived this plan to get Joe to stop obsessing over Chase or if they had thought of it together.

"You told the cops that they threatened a repeat attack?"

Foreman nodded. "They didn't seem to take it too seriously. I argued that they had to do something to protect Chase, but they said it was typical for rapists to make those kind of threats. They told me not to worry about it."

House shook his head. That might be a typical scare tactic, but these two men could very well carry out the threat. They had already demonstrated that they could track Chase down to his workplace. "If the damn police won't do anything to protect him, I'll have Cuddy see to it that a hospital security officer is posted outside his door. It's better than nothing. With any luck they'll find these guys before Chase is released to go home."

"That reminds me, I have to stop by the police station in the morning. They're going to make stills from the security tape so they want me to help identify them and make a formal statement."

"Good. They got what they wanted, but attacking him in a public place was not the smartest move."

"But what if they can't be identified?" Foreman asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." House replied, discouraged by the very real possibility that the hospital security footage would be useless. They still had not found the man who had shot him. "Go home and get some rest. I'll talk to Chase tomorrow."

"Shouldn't the police handle it from here?"

"Sure. They're doing a bang-up job of protecting him now. Come on, Foreman, how many rapists actually get caught? And how many of those get prosecuted? I'm not leaving this to the police. They don't," he stopped himself. He had almost said _care_. "They won't make this a priority. We will." He took Chase's file in his hand, intending to make more notes based on the test results.

Foreman nodded and grabbed his coat before leaving. He had not been able to do anything to help Chase before, but he was not going to sit idly by and do nothing now. With any luck, they would be able to find a good shot of the men on the security tape and they would be captured soon.


	7. Chapter 7

_January 12_

Chase became cognizant of his current state a little at a time. His throat felt as if he had swallowed shards of glass, reminding him of the misery of the recurrent tonsillitis he had as a small child. He was happy for a fleeting moment as he remembered his mother, young and healthy, giving him red gelatin while he laid in his bed and watched cartoons. Even under the influence of narcotics, he knew that was a distant memory.

As the image of his once vibrant and beautiful mother left, he became aware of the stiff mattress he was lying on, the thin pillow under his head, and coarse blanket that was draped over him. It was vastly different from his memory of the soft navy blue bedspread that had been covered with streaks of silvery stars and galaxies and brightly colored planets. He was in a hospital bed, his head slightly elevated. Something was telling him that if he opened his eyes he would be even more miserable than if he could just get back to sleep. An oxygen cannula was annoying him. He moved his right hand to adjust it and felt a plastic pulse oximeter on the tip of his index finger. As he moved his hand, he also felt the pull of the paper tape that was keeping an IV port in a vein in the back of his hand, so he knew he was being given several medications on a regular schedule. A sense of dread told him that something terrible had landed him in this hospital bed, but he would not let his mind drift further than what was immediate.

There was a soft, steady breathing in the room that was not coming from him. He dared to open one eye and saw that Cameron was asleep in a chair. She had spent the night watching him sleep? He opened the other eye and everything in the room looked like it was vibrating, so he shut them both again tightly, feeling slightly nauseated. The feeling that his head might just float away that told him he was under the influence of a strong medication, perhaps something with hydrocodone.

He also realized that, narcotics or not, his bladder was full and demanding attention. He stretched his hand out and felt that the rail was up on the right side of the bed. A little investigation told him that the left rail was in place too. He tried to push the right one down and the jostling and noise awoke Cameron.

She was by his bedside in seconds, "Chase, are you okay? What do you need?" she asked, shivering when he looked upward. His bloodshot eyes and the spattering of petechiae under his eyes told her he had barely escaped the strangulation with his life.

He said nothing, but pointed absently toward the general direction of bathroom.

"Oh!" she said, shaking off her drowsiness, glad that House had not caught her napping on the job. "Of course. Let me help you." She lowered the bedrail on one side and guided him to sit up. "You might still be dizzy and nauseated from the trauma or the medicine," she warned.

_Trauma? _Chase frowned. He did not need or want help going to the bathroom. She kept one hand on his upper arm as he slowly got to his feet. The room was swaying or he was (or they both were).

She removed the cannula and placed the thin tube on his pillow. Its use was a precaution due to the damage to his throat. "Put your arm around me. Hold onto me," Cameron told him. Reluctantly, he did just that long enough to steady himself. She removed the sensor and walked with him to the bathroom, but he let go of her when he got to the door. "It's okay," she told him, encouraging him to let her help him. "Better that I help you than you fall."

Chase shook his head. He did not care about any of the logical reasons why he should allow her to help him: she was a doctor; he was a patient; he had a concussion and his dizziness might make him fall and hit his head on the hard floor. His need for privacy took precedence. He stopped by the door and let go of her.

"Chase, don't be silly. I am a doctor!"

He glared at her.

"Oh," she whined, "Just be careful. Use the hand rails if you have to."

_I've been dizzy since I woke up and I haven't hit the floor yet_, he thought. _And I'm not an idiot_.

After using the bathroom, he turned to the sink and washed his hands. He glanced in mirror as he was drying them. He stopped when he saw his reflection. Deep purple bruises circled his neck. He lightly touched a soft spot at the center that was nearly black. At that moment, he could feel hands squeezing the life out of him. He relived the helpless shock of knowing that his life could be over. He could see the maniacal look in Joe's eyes as he struggled to push the man away. He felt the cold hard metal of a gun against his temple as the other man threatened him, then Foreman's hands on his shoulders, holding him in place for Joe. He saw House in rubber gloves examining him while Cuddy petted his hair and cooed words of encouragement. The humiliation he felt was overpowering.

He gripped the sink tightly to keep from falling. The memories were rushing through his mind and he tried to fight them, focusing on the details of bar of soap he had just used. It was a pale yellow, a thin rectangle, the brand name carved into the cake was almost smeared away already though it had likely only been used once, maybe twice, by Cameron during the night.

"I heard the water running--"Cameron was saying as she opened the bathroom door. She had taken the sound as her cue to come in and guide him back to bed. When she saw that he was struggling to stand, she stopped talking and took a couple of long strides to reach him. "I've got you," she said, putting her arm around him. "Let go!" she urged. "I'll take you back to lie down."

With Cameron there to support him, he turned the hot water back on and reached for the bar of soap.

She saw the crumpled, still wet paper towel where it had fallen onto the floor by the sink. "You just washed your hands," she told him, wondering if he was having a short term memory lapse. That would indicate brain damage from the degree of oxygen deprivation.

Chase scrubbed his hands furiously with the soap, ensuring that any trace of a letter was gone now.

Cameron saw that he was using undue pressure and that the water was starting to steam. "Stop it, Chase!" she said, reaching for the cold water to let it mix with the hot. She took the soap from him and put it back in the tray and made sure he rinsed his hands and dried them again.

"Come on," she said, pulling him toward her.

He took a step toward the shower. He seemed barely aware that she was with him.

"You don't need to shower again, not yet, not while the medicine is making you dizzy." _And not while you're trying to scrub yourself raw, _she added silently. This was not brain damage; it was post traumatic stress disorder.

_I need to_, he thought helplessly. The tiny shower stall seemed a very good place to escape from Cameron's need to fix anything broken and Cuddy's mothering. It was a sufficient place to hide from House's inquiry and Foreman's judgment.

Cameron firmly led Chase back to his bed. She was grateful that he was being compliant since he could easily have overpowered her. For his part, Chase only knew to do whatever he was told. What he wanted did not matter.

Cameron was smoothing his blanket when someone brought in a tray for breakfast. The older woman set the tray down on the rolling table and murmured a dull "Good morning," before turning on her heel and leaving.

"Friendly, isn't she?" Cameron joked. A couple of small covered bowls were on the tray, along with some single-serving cartons. She lifted each plastic lid and announced the contents, "Some kind of broth; red Jello." Then she read aloud, "Skim milk; apple juice. Nice selection," she said sarcastically. "If there's something else you'd rather have, just let me know. I can go down to the cafeteria or to a market."

He shook his head and stared at the red Jello, again thinking of his mother and his own bedroom in his own home at the time of his life when the worst thing in his life was that his father did not come home from work often enough. His pediatrician's office was at the same hospital where his father worked and he almost always got to visit his father's office when he had to see his doctor. "There's the future Dr. Chase!" Rowan's voice would boom whenever he and his mom stopped by to visit.

He vividly remembered one time when Rowan had had some other very important looking people in his office, but he had still stopped what they were doing when he saw his son at the door. "Come in," he called, motioning to his wife and child. He embraced Robert and, in a moment of joviality, lifted his son and flipped him onto his side and spun around. "This is my son, Robbie." He told the men who smiled politely. The child giggled as he saw the word sideways, his light blond hair flying wildly. "Robbie, these gentlemen are going to publish my book." Rowan was in an unusually bright mood.

"Rowan, stop! He's not feeling well!" his mother had admonished. "We just came from Dr. Seller's office. He thinks we should consider letting them operate."

Rowan had put his son down and frowned. "We'll see. If he gets over this bout soon, he may be fine for years to come."

They had been shooed from the office quickly. His father had become even more important after the book was published. He came home even less often than he had previously.

Cameron could tell that Chase's thoughts were far away. She wanted to ask what he was thinking about, but did not. The expression on his face did not reveal if his thoughts were pleasant or not. If it was a good memory, she did not want to bring him back to reality. If it was a bad memory, she did not want to pry.

Chase snapped out of his reverie and saw Cameron looking at him, her brow furrowed with worry. At that moment he realized she really would go to the closest market and bring him back anything he might want, just to do something to help. He opened his mouth slightly and all at once felt overwhelmed by both the pain in his throat and the memory of Joe's friend's voice, _One word _and they would come back. He grimaced as he swallowed, closing his mouth again.

"You need some more medicine?" Cameron asked, seeing the pain clearly etched on his face. "It's about six AM, so they should be bringing another dose soon." She patted his arm.

Chase was hesitant, concerned that she might be angered if he reached out to her, but he took her hand with his and squeezed it, hoping she could read the gratitude in his touch. He did appreciate her for staying with him and trying to help him.

"You need something?" she asked.

He shook his head and met her eyes with his own for a second, then focused his attention back on the Jello that he had no intention of eating. He let go of her hand quickly, afraid of offending her. He reached for the glass of water, brought it to his parched lips and tried to drink some of it. Swallowing was painful; his thirst was painful. He set the glass back on the tray.

"Aren't you hungry?" Cameron asked. She had been surprised by the brief contact he had made with her and relieved that he had reached out to her. It would have been a statistically, if not behaviorally, normal reaction to avoid initiating human contact given what he had been through.

He shook his head to indicate that he was not hungry. He knew he should be since he had not eaten a real meal since breakfast the previous morning, but he had no appetite at all and his throat was too sore to attempt to eat anything.

"Can you speak at all?" Cameron asked timidly.

Chase did not respond, but lowered his gaze even further in shame.

"You must be in a lot of pain," Cameron said. "I'm afraid you're going to get dehydrated. We might have to give you some fluids in addition to the meds." She paused uncomfortably, checking her watch. "Someone should have brought you something for your pain by now. I'll go check on it. Be right back."

Cameron left Chase alone with his thoughts. It was first time he had been alone since House had interrupted his shower. He winced at the idea of facing House again. House had been _kind_, so the world was still topsyturvey.

He pushed the tray away and laid back down, shutting his eyes. He turned onto his right side so that he was facing the doorway, pulled the flimsy blanket over his shoulders, tucked it under his chin and put both arms underneath, making himself a cocoon. He let his right arm lay loosely by his side and shoved his left hand under his pillow.

Cameron returned to find Chase in the fetal position, only his head visible above the covers. She had an IV bag in one hand, a shot in the other, and a legal pad tucked under her arm. She set them all down on the table next to the ignored breakfast. She saw that Chase's eyes were closed, but knew he was not asleep. He was in too much pain to rest.

She grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, hung the IV bag, and then tugged on his sheets. "Chase," she called. "I need to put this in the port." She had made the decision to start some fluids to prevent dehyrdration since he had had difficulty with even a sip of water.

Chase opened his eyes and turned onto his back, taking his right hand out so she could do what she had to do. He watched as she checked the port and started the drip.

"Sorry. You'll have to keep this hand pretty still now." She took a shot of pain medication and slowly injected it into the IV tube. "This should get to work quickly."

She dropped the syringe into the infectious waste container and tossed away her gloves. Chase considered the gloves. One reason they always wore them was to keep from contracting diseases from patients. The names of diseases that he could have been exposed to starting running through his mind.

Cameron pushed the table closer to Chase and pointed to the legal pad. "I thought this might be useful." She reached into the drawer of the night table next to his bed and pulled out a pen with the hospital's logo and placed it on top of the pad.

Chase took the pen and wrote, _Thank you._

Cameron smiled broadly, pleased that she had thought to get him something to write on so that he could communicate. "You're welcome."

There were several things he wanted to ask her, but he felt that somehow if he did, if he acknowledged that he had been attacked, that Joe and his friend would find out and punish him for it. He was not sure what their rules were. He may have broken them already by getting medical treatment. _They might come back._

Before he could torment himself too much with the battle inside his own mind, he could feel the pain medication taking effect. He set the pen down and let his hand fall back to his side.

Cameron saw that his eyelids were starting to droop. "That's better," she said soothingly. "Just rest now."


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: House MD is owned by Universal. No profit made/no profit sought._

_January 15_

House was in his office, legs propped on his desk, leaning back in his chair. He might have looked like he was napping, but Pink Floyd was blaring through the earbuds of his iPod. He was far from relaxed as he pondered the bits of conversation and details he had gotten from Foreman.

They were lucky that no one had been admitted to the hospital flailing and hallucinating with blood pouring from every orifice. The entire diagnostics department was useless at the moment.

Cameron had spent her entire weekend at the hospital. Most of the time she was in Chase's room watching him sleep. House had eventually ordered her to go home to rest. Foreman had even called her a cab and paid the fare before she left, leaving her confused but grateful.

Forman had refused to take some time off, insisting that nothing had happened to him. He was currently perched at the conference table with his laptop open. He would claim to be writing a journal article if anyone asked, but three sentences in four hours hardly made an abstract, much less an article.

Foreman had reported back to his superiors that the stills made from the hospital security camera had been of low resolution so they were poor and grainy. An artist employed by the police department had worked with the stills and his description to create sketches of the men. Those sketches had shown up on Friday night's evening news and in the weekend editions of the local papers. The story had repeated on the local news throughout the weekend, but was now being phased out due to newer stories.

The brief news item had indicated that the two men had held two doctors hostage at gunpoint at the PPTH clinic and sexually assaulted one of them. The public was informed that they were considered armed and dangerous. The blurb had referred to the assault victim only as a _doctor_, conveniently leaving out the gender.

The clinic had never been quite so empty. It would have been the most opportune time for House to get in some clinic hours if he were not entirely focused on another patient with very little mystery about his condition.

House had chosen to keep Chase on enough pain medication to keep him asleep at least twenty-two hours of the day. Cuddy had questioned the treatment and informed House that she could not afford to have two of her best doctors addicted to pain killers. House had justified his decision based on the potential level of pain from the injuries and the observations of PTSD that Cameron had reported. The fact was that House did not want Chase to see the attackers' faces on the television and spiral further into depression and anxiety.

He had effectively arranged for Chase to take a mental vacation while his physical injuries had time to heal. Sedation was a perfectly acceptable course of treatmnt after such a vicious assault. A victim's body needed time to heal while the mind processed the trauma. House's strategy was partly to ensure that Chase's throat was allowed time to repair itself without strain. The damage was substantial, but House questioned Chase's inability to speak because he had made no attempt to speak to anyone since the attack. If he were given some time to heal and still could not say anything, then the psychosomatic cause would become evident. Yet, he knew that Cuddy was right and that he would have to reduce the pain medications soon or they could spark an addiction.

There was _that_ and the fact that he wanted to find out what Chase knew about the men who had attacked him since he had encountered them at least once prior to the assault.

The phone rang, getting both House and Foreman's attention. House shut off his iPod and answered simply because he was closer.

"I need to speak to Dr. Chase," said a weak Italian accent.

"He's unavailable. Could I take a message?" House asked politely, immediately wondering if the stalker would be stupid enough to call Chase at work.

"It's a bit of an emergency," the man said.

"I'm his boss. I'll give him a message as soon as possible."

The man sighed, sounding frustrated or annoyed. "This is Frank Giordano, his landlord. Tell him someone tried to break into his apartment around 3:00 this morning. The window by the fire escape is shattered, but the alarm system was activated and they never made it inside."

"Damn," House muttered. "Any idea who it was?"

"No. I'm having the window replaced, but I've been trying to call Dr. Chase's cell phone all morning and can't reach him. He should know there will be a worker in his apartment. He might want to be here."

"Yes," House said. "The problem is that Dr. Chase's schedule is unpredictable. We're short an ICU doctor, so he's pulling double duty. The window has to be replaced. Just do it. He'll be fine with it."

"Yeah, what's your name? If he has a problem with your orders--"

"He won't. My name is Greg House, his supervisor. Just out of curiosity, did any of the other tenants have any damage?"

"No, just Dr. Chase. It's strange actually, with him being on the sixth floor. I've had this building for twenty years and every other time there's been a break-in, it was on the first floor. Not that we get many break-ins. It's a very safe building. Close to the hospital, Dr. House."

"I have a place, thanks." House told Giordano, cutting off his sales pitch. "I'll tell Chase about the window," he lied.

"What was that about?" Foreman asked.

"Someone tried to break into Chase's apartment through the fire escape." House answered, watching Foreman for a reaction.

Foreman felt as if his blood had run cold and he cursed. "When?"

"Early this morning, late last night, however you want to look at it."

"They saw the news then. They think he's talked to the police." Foreman told him. "They said they'd come after him if he reported it. I thought, I hoped, it was a lie. House, they have to know that Chase didn't say anything. It was me."

House was taken aback by Foreman's reaction. "You sound like really you care about Chase," House said with no inflection, leaving it to Foreman to interpret.

"He kept them from killing me," Foreman answered. "He--" Foreman stopped, seeing the images in his mind that had been plaguing him for days. Foreman had come to believe, whether it was right or wrong, that Chase would have had a better chance of fighting off one or both of the men had he not been there as a constant incentive for Chase to obey their commands and take whatever they doled out to him.

House waited for Foreman to continue, knowing there was something that Foreman had left ignored when they had discussed the situation.

"Excuse me," said a police officer who had walked into the conference room without notice by House or Foreman.

Foreman looked up, but said nothing. House turned to see the same man who had approached him outside of Chase's room. "Still dumb," he stated. Whether he was talking about Chase's lost voice or the officer himself was also left to interpretation.

The man frowned. "I'm not here about the statement. There's a new development."

"The break in?" House asked. When the officer looked surprised he added, "The landlord just called." House saw the name Terrell Madison on the man's name tag.

"You know what this means?"

"They're making good on their threats," Foreman answered.

"Exactly," Madison answered. "We don't see that very often in these kinds of cases."

"So can you get an officer to watch out for Chase now?" Foreman asked.

Madison shook his head with a bitter laugh. "We don't have that kind of manpower. I was going to suggest he stay with family until we catch the perps if we ever do." It was unclear if Madison was simply pessimistic from years on the job or if his unconcerned representation of the local police department was accurate.

House and Foreman exchanged glances, both wondering if Madison knew or cared that Chase had no relatives within ten thousand miles.

"The good news is they seem eager and careless. They'll trip up soon," he continued.

"Eager, careless, armed stalker-rapists. That's great news."

"The more they make themselves known, the easier it will be to catch them," Madison shot back at House. He turned to the other doctor, "You're Dr. Foreman?"

Foreman nodded.

"Have you noticed anything suspicious at your place?"

"No," he shook his head. "They're not interested in me," he answered confidently.

"They threatened you," Madison reminded him.

"I don't think they are after me," Foreman maintained. "I was only a convenient hostage."

"If the break in was by the assailants, then they followed through on their threat to track down Dr. Chase. They could just as easily find you."

"You weren't there," Foreman argued. "I heard what they said. They didn't touch me. They could have picked any random stranger and Chase still would have cooperated with them to keep anyone from getting killed."

"That's one way to ease your conscience," House stated.

"Excuse me?" Foreman asked.

"If Chase would have let himself be brutalized for _anyone,_ you don't have to feel like he did anything specifically for_ you_."

Foreman stared at House, his eyes bulging in anger. "I'm not minimizing that it was me! I'm saying I think Chase would have done what he had to do to protect anyone being held at gunpoint. You weren't there," he repeated. "You don't know anything." Though he was angry, he did not raise his voice. "I've got to get out of here." He grabbed his jacket that was draped over the back of the chair and walked out.

"That was rude," House said to Madison. "Do you think you can catch these guys before my entire team cracks?"

"We're working on it. It's higher priority now that they've attempted to break into his home. It's gone beyond an isolated event."

House refrained from commenting on the idea that any random sexual assault could be of so little importance to the Princeton Police Department. He wondered exactly what kind of cases the department deemed important enough to solve. It seemed that it all amounted to the fact that it would be easier to find the men if they made another appearance.

"It would help if we could get a statement from Dr. Chase."

House frowned. "Come back tomorrow. If he's not well enough to talk, he'll at least be awake enough to write."

Madison nodded, leaving House alone.

House picked up Chase's file and began to rifle through the documentation again. He set aside the envelope that he knew held a CD-ROM of photos. Cuddy had compiled the CD and then sealed the envelope and written her name across the seal to ensure that any tampering with the evidence would be recognized as such. A red inked stamp had been used to mark the envelope "Confidential" in several places.

After a few minutes, he closed the file and massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. There were no answers to be found there. Nothing told him why this had happened. The only way to solve this puzzle was to get Chase to wake up and start talking.


	9. Chapter 9

_January 16_

"It's not breaking and entering. We have a key," Foreman justified as he slipped that key into the door lock. Despite their "legal" entry, he still glanced back at the elevator to make sure no one else had exited the elevator to the sixth floor.

"Does he know we have his key?" Cameron asked, skeptical.

"Look, House told us to come to his place and get some clothes and anything that looked important. Those guys have been here before and they'll come back again. They just won't use the fire escape. They said they would kill him next time." Foreman shivered unwittingly.

They both stopped talking and looked around the apartment. Oak finished hardwood floors and cream colored walls were the neutral base. The walls were almost bare, save a framed print of sunset over Uluru. The sky was a myriad of colors over the monolith. Both sets of eyes went immediately to the window that they knew had recently been replaced.

Foreman picked up almost a week's worth of mail that had been slipped through the letter slot and stuffed in into a banker's box that they had brought with them.

Cameron touched the soft suede-like material of the olive colored sofa. A pillow was on one end of the sofa and an old quilt that looked homemade was folded in quarters and draped over the back. The patchwork design was made of different colors and materials. She touched the quilt too and noticed a tiny embroidered message, "For Robbie, My love in every stitch. Gran, 1989" she read aloud.

At that moment the clash of colors seemed much more beautiful and it struck her that anything Chase really cared about from his old home had to have been packed carefully and either shipped here or brought in his suitcases. When she had left for college she had taken things she did not need and was not sure she wanted because it had been so easy to load her stuff into her car. Her grandmother had made her a quilt and it was still in the closet in her old bedroom at her parents house.

"I'm such a bitch," she confessed with a sigh. "I treat him like dirt half the time." She could picture "Robbie," as she thought of him at that moment, falling asleep on his sofa, his head on the pillow, his feet on that fuzzy gray thermal mat at the other end, wrapped in his grandmother's quilt and dreaming of his homeland. She did a double take at the soft gray square.

Bemused, Foreman watched the emotions play across Cameron's face. "So, we're taking the quilt then?" he asked. He lifted it and shoved it into a black Hefty bag. He pushed the bag toward her. "Go get his clothes. You slept with him. You can go through his underwear." He quickly shook away the thought of having to redress Chase after he had been attacked.

She frowned. "What are you going to do?"

"See what's in his kitchen." The kitchen was separated from the living area only by the cabinet which held a stove, dishwasher, and some drawers. The two were almost one room.

"Why?" Cameron asked, following.

"Because I'm curious," he replied. He opened the refrigerator and announced the contents. "Orange juice, skim milk--that has to be bad by now." He handed the carton to Cameron so she would pour the contents into the sink. "Chocolate soy milk. That stuff will last for months." He let it stay in the shelf. "Salad mix. That has to go." The green leaves were starting to turn brown. He tossed the plastic bag to the floor to dispose of it later. He opened a pyrex dish to find peeled grapefruit and rolled his eyes. He shoved it back into the refrigerator. Unless it started growing green fur, who could tell if grapefruit was fresh or sour anyway? There were apples and oranges in the salad crisper; a couple salad dressings, a half empty jar of pasta sauce, and a jar of mayonnaise were in the compartments in the door; and a loaf of fifteen-grain bread was on a shelf. There was a pack of soy cheese slices and a tub of margarine. He was sorely disappointed.

"Hoping to find an entire German chocolate cake with one fork?" Cameron asked.

"Aha!" Foreman yelped, opening the freezer. He pulled out a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

Cameron took the carton and lifted the lid, "About half of a cup has been eaten. I'd eat the whole pint in one sitting." She replaced the lid and tossed it back to Foreman who caught it and put it back in the freezer between the frozen peas and ready to bake breadsticks. "Organic breadsticks?" he read, annoyed that Chase really did eat all this healthy food.

"There's always the shelves where he might be hiding a case of Snickers bars," Cameron offered.

Immediately, he checked the shelves and announced with clear disappointment, "Crackers, soup, omega-rich peanut butter, honey, tuna, lots of tuna, tea bags, hot chocolate, pasta, veggies."

"We're here to get him some comforts from home," Cameron reminded him.

"Like his favorite flavor of Pop-Tarts, if he ate the damn things," Foreman responded, slamming the door to the cupboard.

"I think he likes Corn Flakes," Cameron said, pointing to a large box of the cereal on the kitchen counter.

Foreman started to look under the sink next.

"We don't have to look for toxins, remember?" she said, becoming uncomfortable with the extent of Foreman's search. "We know why he's in the hospital. Let's find some clothes. I promise I'll get his underwear."

Foreman followed Cameron to the bedroom which had the same neutral walls and oak floors. There was an Oriental style rug beside the bed with a floral design in bold red and black, evened out by a creamy beige. A pair of house slippers were on the carpet along with one black sock.

"There. He leaves his socks on the floor. Happy? And the bed is sloppy," Cameron observed.

"You call that sloppy?" Foreman asked. The black comforter was not perfectly smooth across the bed, but there had been a decent attempt at making the bed, especially for a single male doctor. Navy blue flannel pajamas were at the foot and there was the oddity of another gray mat on top of the pillow on the right side of the bed.

"What the heck are these things?" Cameron asked, patting the soft material.

Foreman shrugged and suggested, "Australian woobies?" He walked to the closet and opened the slatted doors. He pulled out several shirts, black and khaki pants and two pairs of jeans.

While he did that, Cameron had picked up the pajamas and was going through the chest of drawers. She got underwear, socks, T-shirts, and sweatpants. She paused and picked up a framed photograph that was on top of the chest. She immediately recognized a much younger Rowan Chase. "Look at this," she said, calling Foreman to come over to her. She handed him the picture.

Foreman could not help but smile when he saw a Robert Chase that could not have been more than seven years old smiling brightly back at him. He was rail thin with much lighter hair. "His mother's a looker," he commented. She was small framed, with long blond hair, a broad smile, and the same bright blue-green eyes as her son.

Cameron rolled her eyes as she took the picture and put it back in it's place. "I wonder why he doesn't have one that's more recent?"

Foreman set the Hefty bag he was filling next to hers. He noticed a Bible and Rosary beads on Chase's nightstand and decided that he would add them to the banker's box.

"I thought he gave that up," Cameron commented.

"Impossible," Foreman answered. "My dad says no matter how far you stray, you'll always come back."

"Have you?" Cameron inquired. "Gone back?" she knew from her conversation with Foreman's father that he was a very spiritual man who had raised his son in that environment.

Foreman considered it for a moment. He had tried prayer when they were in that exam room, but it had not worked. Or had it? They both made it out alive. He frowned. Reexamining that day for even a moment made his head hurt. "Not yet," he answered. He opened the top drawer.

"What are you looking for?" Cameron asked.

"This," Foreman answered, sounding pleased with himself. He brought out two amber prescription bottles. "Zyrtec and Effexor." He also pulled out a small bottle of prescription eye drops for allergies. "Didn't know he had allergies," he shrugged.

"Effexor?" Cameron took the bottle to see for herself who had prescribed the antidepressant. It was Alan Johnson, one of the psychiatrists at PPTH. The prescription had been written five months prior with a label indicating that two refills were left. That told her that he had been taking the drug long enough that this was not his first prescription. No psychiatrist would have recommended six refills on a person's first trial of a new medication. She frowned. "If he was chronically depressed before, what's this going to do to him?" She handed the bottle over to Foreman. She grabbed Chase's pillow and shoved it into her bag. "I guess I should get his razor and toothbrush and stuff."

Foreman stared at the bottle of Effexor in his hands, pondering Cameron's question. If Chase was already struggled with depression, this would only make things worse. Looking at the label, he ventured a guess that Chase had started the medication after his father had died. As far as he knew, Chase had missed several day's worth of doses while in the hospital and that went against dosing instructions. Effexor was not something a person could start and stop taking cold turkey.

Cameron walked into the bathroom that joined the bedroom and flipped the light switch. With one look at the countertop and she squealed. "Foreman!"

He hurried to her side and saw what she did: two black dishes on a coordinating placemat next to a plastic bucket of food.

The water dish had a tiny amount of liquid left in it, but the food bowl was empty save a few meager crumbs. "Oh, he has a cat!" Cameron exclaimed. "A poor, hungry cat!"

She rushed to the food bucket, opened it, and pulled out a scoop of the dry kibble. The morsels rattled as they hit the empty ceramic. "Kitty!" she called. "Here kitty, hungry kitty!" she shook the bowl of food. The poor thing had had no one to care for it for almost a week and Chase had been too drugged to tell anyone he had a pet.

Soon a fluffy orange and white cat trepidatiously approached the bathroom. It hopped onto the counter and started eating and purring at the same time, making odd little noises.

Cameron patted its long, soft hair. "I can't believe he lets you eat on the bathroom counter," she giggled. She filled the water dish, relieved to see that the animal had not had to go without water at least.

Foreman started laughing.

Assuming that he was laughing at her for gushing over the cat, she snapped, "What's so funny?"

Foreman coughed to make himself stop laughing. "House said bring whatever looked the most important to his place," he chuckled. "That looks important to me."

Cameron also saw the humor of showing up at House's apartment with so much stuff plus a cat. "We should find its carrier."

"What if it doesn't have a carrier?" It was a reasonable question.

"It has coordinating food bowls, gets to eat off the counter in the master bathroom, and sleeps on fuzzy gray mats on the couch and next to Chase's pillow. It has a carrier."

The cat had jumped down and was winding his way around Cameron's ankles. She picked it up and petted it and read the vaccination tag on his collar. _Kacey Chase _and a phone number were engraved along with _Reward if found_.

Cameron hugged the purring furball closely, "Your daddy loves you very much, doesn't he, Kacey?" she said in baby talk. "Did you see a carrier in the closet?" she asked Foreman in her normal voice.

Foreman shook his head and looked under the sink. The only thing there was cleaning supplies. "I haven't seen a litter box either. And I'm not packing that little fuzz bucket's litter box in my car. You don't suppose it's toilet trained, do you?"

Cameron scoffed. "We'll find the carrier and stop somewhere to buy some new supplies." She kept the cat in her arms and went to search the rest of the apartment. "Get his razor and stuff," she told Foreman.

Foreman opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink and found Chase's electric razor, deodorant, four different kinds of toothpaste, cinnamon flavored floss, an electronic toothbrush and several manual toothbrushes. There was also pre-brushing rinse and post-brushing rinse. "Obsessed, much?" he laughed, deciding to grab the electronic toothbrush and the fullest tube of toothpaste. He was surprised to find that the amount of hair care products did not compare to the arsenal of dental care products. He shrugged and decided that Chase could use whatever hair products House used. The amount of stuff they had gathered was getting ridiculous, especially since there was now a cat involved.

Cameron found a second smaller bedroom that was used as an office. Immediately inside the door was a black acoustic guitar, a brown sunburst electric Fender, and what looked suspiciously like a violin case. There were four shelves of medical texts, an assortment of fiction and non fiction books, and about fifty compact disks filling a large bookshelf that took up most of the space along one wall. She read some of the textbook titles, recognizing many of them as books she had copies of at home. She saw _The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People_, _Harry Potter, Narnia,_ _The Case for Christ, Battlefield Mind_, _Freakonomics_, _In a Sunburned Country_, _The World is Flat_, and _The Purpose Driven Life_. She wondered if Chase was an avid reader or one of those people who bought books with the intention of reading them when they "had time."

Next to the bookshelf was a narrow stereo system. Along the next wall was a computer desk. She investigated a notebook that was lying open on the desk and saw that Chase had taken some extremely detailed notes on a case they had solved a few months prior. She was certain that he was writing a journal article, and wondered if it was his first. Under the notebook was an envelope addressed to Dr. Irwin Rowanevich. "Rowanevich?" she said aloud.

"What?" Foreman said as he entered the room to find Cameron with one arm wrapped securely around the cat, holding up an envelope.

"Dr. Irwin Rowanevich," she said.

Foreman nodded. "I've read some of his work. What about him?"

"I think it's Chase," she said, handing the envelope over to him.

Foreman took the envelope and his face lit up with an epiphany. "Of course. Rowanevich would mean _son of Rowan_."

"Why would he use an alias?" Cameron asked, floored that Chase had been publishing articles under an assumed name.

"So he wouldn't be compared to his father," Foreman answered. It was clever, actually: Chase calling himself "son of Rowan" to avoid being known as Rowan's son. He had always assumed Chase never wrote articles for that reason. It had never occurred to him that he would avoid the comparisons by using a different name, albeit one that still carried his father's legacy. He tried to remember which articles he had read that were credited to that name and decided that the cases must have been some that House had before he and Cameron were employed. "So, is Irwin his middle name?" he asked with a snicker.

"I don't know his middle name." Cameron said, disheartened. "I don't know your middle name." She looked at him expectantly.

"Lionel," he answered to appease her.

"Noelle," she told him.

"Maybe it's his mother's maiden name," Foreman suggested, hoping that it would not lead to a discussion of all their family trees.

"Great!" she proclaimed sarcastically. "Maybe The Crocodile Hunter was his third cousin! How have we worked with him for three years and not known that he has a cat or writes journal articles or plays guitar or takes antidepressants?" she asked.

Foreman could not understand why the publishing alias had her so upset.

"Do we not listen or does he not talk?" she asked before turning away. Peaking into the smaller half-bath, she saw that it was where the litter box was kept, next to a garbage can and a plastic bucket of clumping litter. She wrinkled her nose. It had definitely been a few days since the litter had been scooped.

"He doesn't talk," Foreman told her. "House uses every bit of personal information as ammunition. Chase caught onto that early on. He's evasive. He's introverted." Foreman decided to change his adjective. There was more to Chase than he realized. Maybe the man simply had the self-constraint to not say everything that floated into his mind. He glanced at Cameron thinking that she could use a bit of that trait.

Cameron opened the closet door and found the cat carrier along with many boxes that had been shipped from Australia. Most were marked "fragile." She had a strong urge to pull one out and start going through it. "_We_ don't use personal stuff as ammo," she argued while attempting to stuff the hesitant cat into the black canvas carrier. "Okay, Kacey, get in there," she urged.

Foreman just tilted his head sideways a bit. The truth was they both had done their fare share of snarking at Chase and he had snarked back at them. They were all picking up House's bad habits. "The problem is we do," he said. Horrified, he asked, "You don't think Chase will think I would say anything derogative to him about what happened, do you?" If the situation had been reversed, he wondered if he would fear what Chase could say to him. Right now he knew that Chase would not, but would he have felt that way a week ago before he had seen what Chase would go through to protect someone who was being threatened?

"I don't have a clue what Chase would think," Cameron answered, frustrated that she knew so little about man she had worked with for so long and even had sex with once. She considered herself a people person; a listener; a compassionate, caring, nurturer; a healer. A person she spent more time with than her own family had been chronically depressed and she had never noticed. What had happened to the girl who had been voted "Most Dependable" in high school? How had she gone from being everyone's best friend to someone who barely noticed the problems of the people with whom she worked the closest? These investigations into a patient's home were supposed to tell them about the patient and she was uncomfortably realizing what this trip was telling her about herself.

"This is unbelievable," Foreman said.

"What?"

"This situation. House letting one of us crash at his place."

"Do you think he'd do the same for either of us?" Cameron asked.

They had had a discussion about what Chase would do when he was released from the hospital the day before. When she learned that the men had attempted to break into Chase's apartment, she had immediately offered to let Chase stay with her.

"You'd smother him." House had argued.

"He could stay with me," Foreman offered. He would have done so even if Cameron's offer had not been shot down by House. He at least owed Chase a safe place to stay.

"That's the first place they'd look. Or the second," he paused, looking thoughtful. "Technically the third. He'll have to stay with me."

Both of the other doctors had been shocked.

"You can close your mouths now," House admonished. "Wilson crashed at my place for weeks. I'll make Chase do the laundry and cook."

Now, here they were, on a mission to get Chase the essentials he needed to be away from home for what they all hoped would be a just a few days.

Foreman thought about Cameron's question for a moment. "No. I'm sure he'd give us a leave of absence if we needed it, but he wouldn't let us or our cats stay with him."

Cameron looked offended.

"We both have family," he clarified. "We have somewhere else to go, other people who care about us. Chase has his job, this apartment, and a cat. If he has any family left, they're on the other side of the planet. Possibly wrangling crocodiles as we speak," he added, trying to get her to smile.

It worked. "And this is the part where Chase would probably say something like, _Yeah, because everyone on the continent is related_." Cameron guessed, trying on an Aussie accent.

"And House would say _Britain is not a continent._"

Cameron felt tears in her eyes, wishing things were back to normal. Only, if they were normal, she might not ever know that Chase had a cat or liked to read and played guitar and now that she knew those things she saw a vast need for change in her own life. "Can we get all this stuff down to your car in one trip?" she asked. They had two Hefty bags, a banker's box, and a cat carrier.

"You get the box--it's not that heavy--and the cat. I'll get the bags," he offered, figuring they were heavier than the other items. The trip down would be easy since they could take the elevator again.

"Wonder if House and told Chase that he's moving in yet?" Cameron asked.

Foreman shrugged. "I don't know." He looked at Cameron. "I have an idea--if you're up for breaking some rules."

"Fill me in," she said as they left the apartment.

_AN: I've surprised myself. This is one of my favorite chapters so far. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. _


	10. Chapter 10

Chase's mind was whirling with mixed images. He was checking an x-ray, then talking to a sick nun, then being scolded by a priest. His mother was watching while he went running straight into the ocean for a swim. He could almost feel the heat of the sun beating down on his bare back and the sticky residue of the saltwater. He was researching causes for neck pain. Hands were firmly around his neck choking him. There was a beautiful white light and a warmth that completely enveloped him. The breath pouring into him tasted of cigarettes. He saw the black decaying lungs of a smoker. He gave his father what he did not realize was one last hug.

As his mind became clearer, every ache and pain intensified. Still, Chase realized that his throat was not hurting as much as it had been. He was frustrated that he had no concept of how much time he had spent in that hospital bed. His back told him it had been too long. He knew Cameron had been there, but that could just as easily have been six hours or six days in the past. His hair felt greasy, his jaw was covered in stubble, and his mouth tasted like a billion bacteria were thriving there. That alone was enough to force him to come out of his slumber.

He shook the cobwebs from his brain and managed to get himself out of bed. He slipped off the pulse oximeter and removed the IV port which had been relocated from one hand to the other. A huge bruise was left where it had been previously. As soon as he had removed the port he had realized that he should have let it stay in place. Still, it was easier to move about if he did not have to drag an IV or monitor every step. He was brushing his teeth when a nurse walked into his room and began calling to him. He did not recognize her voice and wondered who she was and if she was telling all the other gossipy nurses why he was a patient.

He opened the bathroom door and she breathed a visible sigh of relief. "You're not supposed to be out of bed by yourself. House will have my head on a platter if you hurt yourself." She was probably only a few years older than him and had curly red hair, brown eyes, and a few freckles on her nose. He disliked her for no other reason than she was there.

_I'm not dizzy_, he thought, remembering Cameron's concern over his concussion. Chase wondered if she meant hurt himself by doing something like tripping over electrical chords or hurt himself by doing something like slitting his wrists. He shrugged and held up the toothbrush for her to see, feeling a bit like an idiot. He refrained from wearing a foolish smile to complete the picture. He turned back to the sink and hastily finished his chore. There was no razor so it would not have been possible to act on the wrist slitting theory anyway. He looked past the stubble on his chin to see the still glaring bruises around his neck.

"How's your throat?" she asked.

Chase turned around to face her again to tell her somehow that he could not answer her. He rubbed his throat, hoping she would get the message that it was hurting.

"Exactly what I wanted to know," House echoed, as he came into the room and shut the door behind him. "You can leave now," he told the nurse who scurried out of the room like a scolded cat.

Chase looked to the floor and put his hand down. At that moment he was grateful that someone had been dressing him in scrubs instead of the normal patient gowns. _Where are my clothes? _he thought.

House grimaced. Ten seconds had passed and Chase had not answered him. This was a bad sign. Fifteen seconds had passed and he had not even made eye contact. He was staring at the floor.

"Didn't you appreciate your vacation?" House asked.

Chase looked up then.

"You've been asleep for the better part of five days. I figured you could use the rest and your throat could use the time to heal itself."

Chase blinked. _Five days? _He had been hospitalized for _five days? _A sense of panic began to bubble somewhere deep inside of him.

"Say something!" House demanded.

He swallowed the lump at the back of his throat. He opened his mouth but could not quite think of how to form any words. Maybe it was because he could not think of any words to say.

House inhaled deeply. He approached Chase in the tiny bathroom.

Chase held out his right arm, palm forward, warning House to not come any closer. He shook his head.

"I need to see your throat," House told him, ignoring the body language.

Chase continued to shake his head and backed further away from House. He had no where left to go when he reached the inner wall of the small room.

House paid no attention to personal boundary issues. He reached out and Chase slid down wall, then bolted underneath House's arm to get away from him. House spun around and used his cane to push the door to the bathroom shut before Chase could make his escape, then grabbed the patient's shirt to stop him. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said without warmth. He forced Chase to turn around to face him. "I need to see your throat."

Chase had a wild panic in his eyes as he shoved House away from him.

House stumbled backward and Chase used his freedom to flee from the bathroom. He made it as far as the door to his room before he stopped cold in his tracks. There was one certainty: he was safer in this room with House than he would be out there. He noticed a hospital security officer in the familiar uniform of black pants and a khaki shirt standing by near the door. The man curiously looked his way so Chase quickly shut the door, wondering why a security guard was standing duty there.

House came out of the bathroom to find Chase standing at the entrance to his room, frozen to the spot. House had a smile on his face. He had just learned a very important piece of the puzzle: Chase would, in fact, still defend himself and run when there was not a gun to his head or a hostage's life at stake. The young man was not completely broken by this experience.

Then there was his complete reluctance to face the outside world. He was far from unscathed.

House approached Chase more cautiously. He reached out, placing one hand on his shoulder, "Nice move. Your pediatrician must have loved you." He could easily picture a child ducking under a doctor's arm to get away from nasty shots. For that matter, he could imagine himself ducking under Cuddy's arm to get out of clinic duty if only he were able to make a run for the exit.

"I shouldn't have cornered you like that," House said. It was not exactly an apology. Cornering Chase had served its diagnostic purpose. "Have I hurt you so far?" he asked.

Chase felt the hand on his shoulder and closed his eyes, wanting to shrug it off. He shook his head. He wanted to tell--to _ask_ House to not touch his shoulders, but there were no words.

"Come sit down," House directed, gently pushing him back to the bed. "I need to check your throat."

Chase tilted his head upward while House stood over him. It was easy to see that bruises and petechiae still covered his neck. He noted that there were some small purple spots under Chase's eyes as well. They were the result of capillaries bursting during the strangulation. His eyes looked slightly bloodshot, though far clearer than they had bad been upon initial examination. He noticed the scratch marks on his jaw and neck that were most likely from Chase's own fingernails as he tried to fight against the hands wrapped around his throat.

Knowing that it could take less than a minute for a strangulation victim to lose consciousness and never recover, House pondered how close to death the young man had come. He took a lighted scope in his hand, but Chase pushed his hand and the instrument away.

"You have two options: start talking or have more tests."

Chase reached for the legal pad and pen that Cameron had given him. Under his message of thanks to her, he wrote, "_I need time, not tests."_

"You could have laryngeal nerve damage or edema. You could have fractured cricoid or thyroid cartilage."

"_You did a soft tissue x-ray and laryngoscopy."_

"So we know you have no mucosal lacerations. There's no detachment. Fractures can take days to appear in x-rays."

"_If it's a fracture, it needs time."_

"If it's nerve damage you may need surgery."

"_Or it can reinnervate with time. It can be vocal fold hematoma which takes TIME."_

"Or it's not a physical problem at all and you don't want me to know that it's mental."

Chase looked away, thoroughly hating House at that moment.

"Not speaking is not going to prevent you from having to confront what happened," House told him.

_He's wrong. I'm not crazy_, Chase thought bitterly while fearing that House was right. How could he explain that he could not make the words in his mind reach his throat? He imagined a little wall inside his neck that kept his thoughts from being able to find their way to his larynx.

Chase dared to open his mouth, and it felt as if his throat was flaming. The pain was agonizing, making his eyes water. He shook his head and reached for his pen. "_It hurts_," was all he wrote.

"Fine," House gave up on doing another exam. He did not doubt for a moment that Chase was telling the truth about the pain. It was likely that he did have cartilage fractures and edema that would take time to heal. The issue remained that Chase was not attempting to vocalize anything. "I'm going to try systemic steroids for the possible edema." He threatened unproven treatment to try to provoke a reaction.

There was none.

"I'm adding H2 blockers for reflux. That should help with pain management." When Chase did not respond to that he added, "Three more days and I'm doing an endoscopy."

Chase nodded, accepting those terms. It was a fair amount of time to allow edemas or hematomas to heal. He had three days to learn to speak again or have to endure more painful procedures.

"Go take the shower I know you're itching for. Officer Madison of the PPD will be here in a few hours to take your statement."

Chase looked up with horror. If he made a statement to the police, those men would come back for him.

"We'll be back soon. Try to remember everything you can so they can nail those bastards to the wall."

_I don't want to remember any of it_, Chase thought as he watched House walk away. _They can't make me talk about it, write about it, whatever_. He threw the legal pad across the room, its pages fluttering before it fell to the tile with a smack. Not fully satisfied with that, he also threw the pen which bounced off the wall and landed under the bed. He wanted to take a shower, so he went back to the bathroom, then he realized he had no clean clothes. He slammed the bathroom door shut before sinking to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and shedding quiet angry tears.

_AN: So it only took about 20 hours of research to write this chapter! Whew! I'm tired. If it's of any comfort to the wonderful readers, it's as medically accurate as I could make it without paying for articles from medical journals! Thanks to everyone who has taken time or will take time to review. I love ya for it!_


	11. Chapter 11

"_I have to go home_," Chase scrawled on the legal pad that Cameron had brought to him. He assumed the nurse that House had sent to baby-sit while he showered had picked up the pad and pen from the floor because they were both on the dresser by his bed when he came out of the bathroom. He had not been entirely annoyed by her since she had brought him a welcomed change of clothes and a razor.

"Your doctor hasn't released you," Cuddy told him. She had stopped by to check on him since she knew House had planned for him to make a statement to the police this afternoon. She wanted to offer him a little bit of encouragement that she was certain he needed.

His eyes darted upward and his brow furrowed. "_I can't stay here_," he wrote. His penmanship was such that the reader had to figure out the message based on the identifiable letters, which were only about half of the total. Fortunately for Cuddy, she had years of experience deciphering doctor code.

Cuddy's expression softened. "You're safe here. We have a guard outside your room. They can't--"

He shook his head as a blush crept across his cheeks. "_That's not it. I have to go home."_ He rued the fact that not being able to speak and having something to say meant he had to make eye contact. He was horribly ashamed when he looked at Cuddy and thought about her her taking part in his exam. The details were blurry, but he knew she had been there. It was hard to face someone who had seen you at your very worst and even transported your vomit to dispose of it. He cringed inside, wishing he did not remember anything at all about the exam.

He pondered if he should he thank her for being kind to him; or if, like himself, she would rather the subject never be broached. He considered whether she assisted House because she cared that one of her employees had been injured or if she was only intent on making sure all the procedures were followed correctly to protect the hospital's interest. It was hard for Chase to allow himself to think that he himself might matter.

"You won't be safe there," she told him as gently as one could deliver such news. "You do know they tried to break into your apartment, don't you?"

He shook his head, feeling even more violated than before. Now, they had intruded upon his home too. Secondly, no one had bothered to tell him about it. He wondered where Cameron was. It was unlike her to keep something like that quiet. He doubted that Cuddy would have been the first person anyone would have contacted about his apartment.

Pushing his anger aside, he continued, "_I still can't stay here. I have a cat. He's out of food by now." _Even more importantly, he may have been out of water.

"Oh," Cuddy exclaimed, curious that he did not have more questions about the break in at his apartment. She would have wanted to know the extent of the damage and if anything had been stolen. At least, she thought she would. She considered that her concerns might be different if she had just gone through what Chase had. "Don't worry. I'm sure we could send Dr. Cameron to feed him," she suggested, assuming that of all his coworkers he was closest to Cameron. She had heard rumors about them.

Chase swallowed his pride and wrote in big printed letters to get his point across: "_I CAN'T AFFORD THIS." _In smaller cursive he added, "_Too many tests, staying overnight."_

She was taken aback. "You have insurance and employee discounts. I'm sure workman's comp will play in somehow. You were attacked on the job." She was treading a fine line between admitting the hospital was liable, thus ensuring a multi-million dollar lawsuit, and despicably allowing him to worry about financial concerns which were not a reality.

"_I still have to pay the deductible and I have rent and utilities and a car payment and insurance. I can't afford to stay in the hospital."_ He hated writing it out for her. Even someone with a comfortable lifestyle would be hard hit with bills from the series of tests he had been through along with the prolonged stay in the hospital.

He had never been poor, but he did live within a budget. He had taken the money he had inherited from his mother and put it in very safe, secure certificates of deposit. It was not the most adventuresome investment, but it ensured a decent interest rate without heavy risk. It also meant the money was untouchable. He lived off his salary and that meant that accruing upwards of sixty thousand dollars in medical bills would hurt, even with insurance. He was well aware that the patients who actually paid for services were gouged because someone had to pay for the patients who received their health care for free.

Cuddy sighed. It was a poor reflection of the American health care system that a doctor was telling her that he could not afford to be sick or injured. "I'll see to it that all the bills are comp'ed," she said softly. She was not going to allow perceived cost or admission of liabilty to stand in the way of protecting him. She thought that, at the very least, he should remain hospitalized until they had established if his inability to speak was physical or mental. That determination could seriously affect when he was cleared to return to work. She would only allow herself to assume that Chase would return to his position on House's team. The alternative of losing a doctor with his specialty was not something she was prepared to consider. Not only was he a gifted intensivist, he was one of the few doctors on staff who could deal effectively with House. That in itself was a rare and valuable skill.

Chase would not have felt more insulted if she had just slapped him. "_No. I pay my own bills,"_ he wrote in hasty, angry scribbles.

Cuddy was frustrated, torn between protecting an employee she genuinely liked and respected and protecting the hospital itself. Remembering how betrayed Alfredo had felt when she had put legalities ahead of employer/employee relations, she caved. "The hospital is liable anyway. Our security failed to keep an armed man out of the premises--again."

The truth was that if Chase or Foreman wanted to sue the hospital over their security problems, they would have a strong case. It was the second time in less than a year that someone had been able to get a gun into the building and harm someone. Their entire security system would be getting a major overhaul immediately.

"_I don't want to sue the hospital."_

Cuddy smiled and hoped that he would not change his mind when all of the drugs were out of his system. The slightly glazed look in his eyes told her that she could not hold him to anything he said at the moment.

"_I am worried about my cat,"_ he added. He never left for work without making sure that Kacey had at least three days worth of food and water, but he had been away from home for six. He had figured out the best way to make sure he never left his house in such a hurry that he forgot to feed the cat was to keep the cat's food and water on his bathroom counter. That way, even if he was paged at 2:00 AM, he would see the dishes and remember to fill them when he washed his face, brushed his teeth, or went to the bathroom before leaving for the hospital. Kacey had a healthy appetite since he was still growing. Chase had only had him about nine months._"He's probably starving by now."_ He wondered if he was projecting his own hunger onto his pet. The difference was that Kacey _could_ eat and Chase still found swallowing even water excruciating.

"We'll take care of it. I promise. Try to not worry so much. It will only make your recovery more difficult. If you'll give me permission and your key I'll ask Dr. Cameron to go check on him," she offered."When I was growing up, we had a cat that got stuck in the attic for eight days before we realized what had happened. It was just fine."

Though he appreciated her sentiment, he found it difficult to not worry. "_Maybe she doesn't know what it's like to be alone,"_ he thought. He did not know much about her, but was sure that someone would at least show up if she were hospitalized. Besides that, what made her think that he would let Cameron into his home to feed his cat anyway? Did he no longer have any say about his own life as far as these people were concerned? A flash of resentment coursed through him and disappeared as quickly as it came. He shook it away, telling himself that he did not have the right to be angry with anyone. _This is all my own fault_.

Chase was surprised to see Wilson walking into his room. Cuddy met him with a nod which Wilson returned. The other doctor's presence was not especially welcome as far as Chase was concerned. Wilson had no business knowing why he was hospitalized. Chase bit down on the inside of his lip and consciously tried to slow down his respiration. Otherwise, rage would take over. _House can't keep his fucking mouth shut._ He imagined that the two of them had had a mighty good laugh at how weak he was.

Wilson turned to Chase and set a quart of chilled chocolate milk on the beside table. He lifted the top of a meal tray and saw ignored chicken broth, green gelatin, and orange juice. "I thought you might want something fit for human consumption." The food the patients got was barely edible.

Chase looked at him with no expression.

"How are you doing?" Wilson asked with what would have passed as genuine concern if Chase had not been so ill-tempered at the moment.

Chase shrugged, lowering his eyes.

Wilson pushed the milk forward. "Drink this," he urged. "It's cold and smooth and should go down easily. Man can't live on nutrient drips alone."

It _was_ a kind gesture, Chase conceded. He looked up and nodded slightly. He checked the nutritional information on the jug out of habit.

"Full fat," Wilson told him with a smile. "And high in sugar too."

Chase wondered how Wilson knew that he had not eaten, even since he had been awake. He realized he was being rude, so he penned, "_Thank you_," and turned the pad around for Wilson to see.

"You're welcome," Wilson told him. He glanced at Cuddy while Chase opened the milk.

"I should go," Cuddy announced, getting the _leave us alone _message loud and clear. "Oh, Chase, I wanted to let you know that we're going to install panic buttons in every office, patient room, and clinic room in the hospital. I realize it's of little consolation to you, but it will be an improvement in the system. I don't want you to fear that this could ever happen here again."

_A lot of bloody fucking good that'll do me_, Chase thought. He nodded. _Someone should have thought of that before House got shot._ He knew the rooms in the psych ward were equipped with warning systems and wondered why they were not standard protocol for all areas of the hospital. The idea that one little well placed button could have stopped this from happening was breaking his heart. He felt tears starting to spring to his eyes and blinked several times to make them stop. He could not let Wilson run off to tell House that he was crying. _I'm not crying, damn it_, he told himself.

"I'll check in again soon," Cuddy promised. "And don't worry about anything. We'll take care of it." She left to the familiar sound her heels clicking on the floor.

Wilson was studying Chase's face intently. There was a darkness playing across his features and the light seemed to be gone from his eyes. His brow knitted and relaxed with his thoughts while his lips remained pressed together. He seemed to suddenly remember that he had been opening the milk when Cuddy said her goodbye and he finished that job in a swift motion. He brought the plastic container to his mouth and took a tentative sip.

Chase found that Wilson was right. The cold, creamy milk was much easier to swallow than the water had been. The cool temperature had its own analgesic effect. He realized just how hungry he really was and drank more a little at a time.

Wilson was pleased to see that Chase was consuming something. His mother had been a firm believer that food made anything better. She believed that you fed a fever, a cold, a broken arm, and a stubbed toe. She took food to funerals, parents of new babies, the sick, the elderly, and nearly everyone on her holiday list. If nothing else she had instilled in her son the appreciation of a good meal.

"I wanted to offer a friendly warning," Wilson said, deciding that Chase's inability to speak did not give him much room to establish rapport.

Chase looked up, puzzled. Wilson was warning him?

Sure that he had Chase's attention, Wilson continued. "Living with House is like living with a twelve year old boy. He plays pranks. He steals your food, moves your stuff, never does the dishes, never gives you your messages, and will stay on his couch until midnight watching a porno even if you've got to be at work by seven in the morning. He uses all the hot water, never changes an empty roll of toilet tissue, never pays for any groceries, helps himself to anything of yours, and will take your laundry out of the washer to do his own and then expect you to dry both loads. He leaves cracker and potato chip crumbs on the couch he expects you to sleep on. He plays his music too loudly when you're trying to sleep. He--" Wilson stopped, realizing from the expression on Chase's face that the young doctor had no idea why he was telling him all of this.

Chase wondered what would possess Wilson to share this information with him.

"You have no idea, do you?" Wilson asked, shaking his head. House was going to kill him.

Chase shrugged.

"Never mind," Wilson said, turning away. He had just managed to spill the beans about House's plan to keep Chase safe.

Chase waved to get Wilson's attention, but the older man could not see him. Desperate to keep him from walking away and leaving him to ponder what that tirade had been about, Chase took his pen and flung it at Wilson's back.

Wilson spun around and picked up the offending object which had fallen to the floor after thumping him.

Chase motioned for him to come back.

Wilson handed him the pen.

"_Sorry!_" Chase wrote and underlined it three times.

"It's okay," Wilson responded.

"_What are you talking about?"_

Wilson ran his hand over his face. "You're going to House's place when you get out."

Chase shook his head, "_Why?"_

"So you'll be safe. They broke into your apartment. They're stalking you."

"_I won't be safer at House's house. House will just be in danger then."_ He rolled his eyes at the redundancy of his statement before showing it to Wilson.

"You don't need to be alone."

"_No,"_ Chase wrote. "_I can't put House in danger." _He was certain the men would kill House if they found that he was staying with him.

Wilson could not help but smile. Dozens of his colleagues had asked him how he could bear to be friends with Gregory House. Almost no one could understand why he actually cared about the cantankerous diagnostician. It pleased him to know that Chase cared about House too. Wilson had always suspected that Chase looked at House like some kind of unhealthy father figure and it only made him question how bad of a father Rowan Chase had been. After all, anyone that made House seem like a good parental substitute must have been about as lousy as a father could be.

When he had treated the elder Dr. Chase, Wilson had realized quickly that the man was arrogant, self-absorbed, and seemed to think that several doctors' estimation of his cancer meant less than his own. He had cared little about sparing his son the blow of losing his father unexpectedly and leaving him to question why his father did not respect him enough to inform him of the truth. The only word for his actions toward the younger Chase was _cruel_.

"House wants you with him. And we all know that House gets what he wants. Take it as a compliment." Wilson thought that would be a good place to make a hasty exit so he left Chase alone to reconcile himself to the novel idea that someone actually did care about him.

_Thanks to everyone who has left or will leave comments!_


	12. Chapter 12

Detective Madison introduced himself to Chase, who was sitting up in his bed. He had been flipping through television stations, bored and restless.

House moved the chair Cameron had slept in closer to the bed. He took the remote control and turned the television off after noticing that Chase had been watching something on Animal Planet. "Educational programming?" he scoffed, disgusted. "Isn't _Spongebob_ on?"

"I need to get a statement," Madison said, setting a messenger bag on the floor beside his chair. Another officer, at least ten years younger than the first, followed him into the room. He had a small digital video recorder in his hand. He was introduced as Marty Simms.

"I'm interpreting and monitoring. If you start to look like you're going to blow a gasket, he's out. And no faking your blood pressure, Mister," House warned as he wrapped a sphygmomanometer band around Chase's arm and set the machine to check his blood pressure every ten minutes.

Chase shook his head. They knew damn well that he could not give them a statement.

He was getting tired of all these people coming in and out of his room. Cuddy had sent a crisis counselor to talk to him--or _at_ him. She had shown up less than ten minutes after Wilson left. She had blabbered on and on about how it would take time to heal emotionally as well as physically and she was there to help him through _every_ step of the process. She had said that it was okay for him to feel _whatever_ it was he was feeling. Chase decided that she obviously did not have a clue about what he was feeling or she would not practically be sing-songing the benefits of therapy. He viciously thought for a second that actually being raped should be a requirement to be a rape counselor and immediately hated himself for letting that thought enter his mind. He would not have wished this on anyone. He prayed for forgiveness silently while she continued her spiel.

According to Ms. Sunshine, all that he had to do was share his feelings with _her_ and the world would be a wonderful place full of daffodils and bunny rabbits or some such nonsense. She was bright, cheerful, oh so positive, and he momentarily wanted to shove her out of the nearest window just so he would not have to endure the grating tones of her happy, happy voice. He prayed another prayer of repentance and wished that she would leave so he would stop wishing evil upon her.

Chase had refused to even write a "Hello" to her. He knew how these things worked. He could outlast the hour she had set aside especially to harass him. He guessed that he might even be able to wear down her resolve so that she would leave in less than an hour. That's exactly what happened. Chase claimed victory thirty-eight minutes into their session, when she left with drooping shoulders, a cheerful promise to come back, and an invitation to call her at any time. He wondered if that meant three o'clock on a Saturday morning before he tossed her contact card into the trash can by his bed.

_One down_, he thought, wondering how long he would have to be unresponsive to get this group to leave.

"I'm aware that your injuries are keeping you from speaking," Madison said. He set a small audio tape recorder on the bed.

_That's rude_, Chase glared at the micro recorder. It was too close, encroaching on his space and he did not like it. He found it asinine that they had two recording devices when he had not consented to give a statement and could not say anything for them to record anyway.

"Dr. House said you have been communicating by writing, so I'll ask. You answer. Dr. House will read your answers and bear witness that you wrote everything yourself."

"It was me or the pharmacist. No one else can read your handwriting," House told him. That was not exactly the truth, but it served as a good enough excuse for House. He volunteered to be Chase's voice. He wanted to piece together the clues in this mystery to solve the puzzle. The only way he could have access to Chase's side of the story was to be here now. He knew better than to assume that Chase would ever talk to him about it directly or to believe that Foreman had given him a complete picture of what had happened.

Chase thought there ought to be more technically advanced ways to handle this. Instant messaging would be easier than this setup.

"Think of Dr. House as an translator. If we had a deaf witness, they could make a statement through sign language that someone would interpret. As a matter of fact, if you know sign language, we can bring in a ASL interpreter," Madison offered as an afterthought.

Chase shook his head, indicating that he did not know how to communicate that way.

"Though you are mute, there is no question that your intelligence is such that you can comprehend and reply to the questions." At one time, deaf or mute witnesses had actually been considered incompetent based solely upon their disabilities.

Madison retrieved a notebook and pen from his messenger bag. "Use this. We're going to keep your handwritten statement."

Chase stared at them blankly.

"Dr. Chase?" Madison asked.

Deciding that the nonresponsive approach was not going to work as well against three people, especially when one of them was House, Chase opened the notebook that he had been given and wrote, "_I don't have anything to say_."

"You don't want to press charges?"

He did not have an answer. _I don't want to be…_ he could not even let himself think the word. _I don't want to be killed_, he told himself. Though the truth was that the light he saw when he was not getting any oxygen was a more inviting alternative than being raped again.

"Even if you don't press charges, you'll be subpoenaed as a witness," Madison warned him.

Chase was horrified. He knew a subpoena would force him to testify or he could be held in contempt. _They'll send me back to Australia_, he feared.

"They brought firearms into an extension of the university campus. Princeton is pressing charges. We have a statement from your friend who was also held hostage. He is pressing charges."

Chase felt trapped, almost as closed in as when he was in that room. He did not realize this had gotten so big. The university was involved as an institution. Did everyone know what had happened to him? How would he ever show his face in public again? He did not want to be that person, the one whom everybody pitied, the one whom nobody would look in the eye. He despised Foreman at the moment. _How dare he press charges and force me to testify? _

His hand was shaking as he wrote, "_They said they would kill me if I told anyone."_

"We have reason to believe they will follow through on that threat," Madison cautioned.

"Meaning you have to cooperate with the police, not with the trash who did this," House interjected.

"_They said they would kill Foreman if I talked." _He wished that part did not matter to him at the moment, but it did.

"Everyone who meets Foreman threatens to kill him eventually," House shrugged. "I've threatened him at least sixteen times."

Chase could not help but smile. "_They got that on tape,_" he wrote to House.

"Oops," House smirked. "The point is you really don't have a choice." He was pleased that Chase had not lost his sense of humor.

_I rarely do,_ Chase thought. His life had been a series of doing things that he did not want to do for the sake of someone else's needs or demands. _That's why they picked me. I have _pushover _tattooed on my forehead. _His mind wandered, questioning what it was about him that let them know that they could take him and make him do whatever they wanted and get away with it.

"Did you recognize the men?" Madison started his interrogation, unwilling to give Chase any more time to consider whether or not he would cooperate with the investigation.

Snapped back to the task at hand, Chase answered, "_Not at first. They reminded me." _He wondered what it would be like if he tried to speak, but could not force an attempt.

"You did not recognize a guy whose throat you reportedly had sliced open?" Madison asked, skeptically.

"_I've sliced open a lot of throats." _Chase answered, annoyed. "_Lucky for my patients, I tend to pay more attention to the neck than the face." _House read the statement with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

"Where did you initially meet these men?"

"_The White Dove Café."_

"What were you doing there?"

"_Having dinner."_

"What kind of place is it?"

"_It's a restaurant and a singer/songwriter's circle."_

"What does that mean?"

"_Amateur songwriters play original music most nights. Sometimes there is a certain person featured. Some nights anyone with a guitar can get up and sing."_

"How often do you go there?"

"_Every 4-6 weeks."_

"Do you only eat and listen or do you play and sing?"

Chase frowned, failing to see how the answer was pertinent. This was not one of the things he had ever intended his coworkers to know about him. "_Sometimes I play or sing." _It felt like there was nothing left in his life that was private.

House noticed that Chase's ears were turning a little bit pink. "You want to quit medicine and be a rock star?" he asked bitterly.

"_No, but it's nice to have some positive feedback once in a while,"_ Chase wrote quickly, increasingly annoyed by the line of questions.

"I'm positive."

"_About something other than my hair." _House read the message to himself, refusing to read it aloud for the camera.

"Would you classify yourself as a regular patron?"

"_I don't know what constitutes 'regular_,'" he responded.

"Have you ever seen the men who attacked you prior to the night where you helped to save Joe's life?"

"_No_."

"Are you sure they were never there at another time when you were there?"

"_No. I can't be sure of that. I don't take note of every person in a room with me_."

"What happened on the night in question?"

"_I was watching whoever was singing, but there was a commotion. He appeared to be choking, so I was going to try the Hymelich. When I got closer, I realized he had stopped breathing and was breaking into hives, so it had to be anaphylaxis. I asked what he'd eaten and if he had any allergies and also if anyone had an Epi-pen. His friend said he was allergic to fish, but he had not eaten anything with fish. I'd imagine there had been cross contamination in the kitchen, but that's just a guess. Someone had already called 911. I knew St. Sebastian's was 15 miles away. I didn't think the paramedics could possibly get there in time to save him. I asked for some supplies from the kitchen just in case I had to work on him--gloves, alcohol, a small flat edge sharp knife and any kind of tubing. The only tube they had was a straw. He was already starting to become cyanotic, so I knew he wasn't getting any oxygen. A few more minutes would have meant brain damage or death. I did what I had to so he could get oxygen."_

"That works?" Madison asked after House read back Chase's paragraph.

"_If you know what you're doing, it works. It's gross negligence if you don't. It's a procedure I've done with optimal materials dozens of times." _

"Dr. Foreman said they told him you used a razor."

Chase looked puzzled. "_No, definitely not."_

"Did you say anything to the other man?"

"_I probably said that Joe might get an infection, because I was worried about that, but I was really too busy making sure he was getting air to talk to anyone. I was keeping watch over him while we waited for the paramedics."_

"Dr. Foreman stated that they said you said death couldn't be cured."

"_That's stupid. I'd never say anything that glib in that kind of situation. They're obviously nuts." _House smirked as he read the statement, but wondered what was so wrong about a glib remark in the middle of a crisis.

"Did you say anything at all to anyone else?"

"_I told the paramedics Joe's symptoms, who I was, and what I had done." _

"At any point during the ordeal was Joe conscious?"

"_No. I don't think so. Maybe a few moments when the anaphylaxis started, but it escalated rapidly and he was unconscious within seconds of when I first saw him."_

"Dr. Foreman said thy specifically asked for 'the blond doctor with an accent' and that the accomplice said Joe had not been able to stop thinking about you. How could Joe identify you if he was unconscious?"

"_I have no idea. I guess the other guy told him."_

"Did anyone ever use his name?"

"_No."_

"To limit confusion, we'll refer to him as Dave from this point forward."

It struck Chase odd to have a name, even a fake name, to associate with the man who had held him at gunpoint and encouraged Joe to attack him. Although he knew Joe Smith was also a fake name, it did not feel as eerie to him as designating a random name for the other attacker.

"Did you accompany Joe when he was transported to St. Sebastian's?"

"_No. The EMT's took my contact info and handled it from there."_

"The next time you saw him?"

"_In the clinic." _He wrote. A feeling of panic washed over him. He did not think he could discuss this ordeal, even in writing.

House noted that Chase's heart rate jumped.

"In your own words, what happened in the clinic?"

_Who else's words am I going to use? _he asked silently, thinking it was a insensitive way to phrase the question. He inhaled slowly to steady his nerves.

"_Foreman called me for a consult. He told me the patient wanted to see me because I had saved his life. I didn't recognize him at first, but they reminded me who they were. I don't remember everything. Dave had a gun." _He paused, trying to collect his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" House asked.

"_I don't remember exactly what he said."_

"Do your best," Madison encouraged.

"_They didn't have a reason to keep Foreman so I asked them to let him go, but Dave said Foreman was their insurance that I'd cooperate. He said he would kill him if I didn't do what they wanted." _He kept writing without pausing for House to read.

He remembered that Joe had touched his hair, but it was not a detail he felt compelled to include in his narrative. "_He tried to kiss me but I wouldn't let him. I think that Dave hit me. He told Joe to get what they came for. They made Foreman tie my hands behind my back and,"_ he could not remember. Had they pushed him? Had Foreman pushed him? Had he just fallen to the floor because they told him to? "_I had to get on my knees," _he decided was the best way to phrase it without lying.

Tears sprang to his eyes while he recalled the horror and humiliation. "_Foreman held me there for Joe because Dave was holding the gun."_

He realized it was easier to write this than it would have been to tell the story out loud. Even without choice, this gave him some small aspect of control.

He remembered how it felt--his knees on the hard floor; his arms aching more and more with every minute that passed; Foreman tall and sturdy behind him; firm hands on his shoulders reminding him that someone else's life was at stake; no relief from the suffocating intrusion. He could not escape. He could not breathe. He could only move the way Joe forced him to move. Tears fell onto the paper as he summarized his horror with four words. "_He used my mouth." _Chase stopped writing, falling into the memory.

House took the statement away from Chase, and read it to the officers. He hid his shock as he read about Foreman and cringed as he read the last four words.

"What does that mean, exactly?" the officer prodded. "Used your mouth for what?"

"Oral sex, you asshole. What do you think he means?" House answered hotly.

Chase looked at the man in disbelief. Why was he being so dense?

"_He_ has to be specific," Madison replied.

House handed the notebook back to Chase who wrote, "_Oral sex, you asshole_," and handed it back to House.

Officer Madison sighed with frustration. "I have to ask." He observed that the victim appeared to be channeling strength from the abrasive older doctor.

Chase frantically took back the notebook and wrote, "_I'm sorry,"_ terrified that he had made the man angry and would be in _trouble_, though he had no idea exactly what _trouble _meant. Something told him that he was not allowed to be angry.

"Just continue. What happened next?"

"_Foreman asked them to untie me. They started hitting me, but I don't remember why." _It bothered him very much that he could not remember why they were hitting him. He could recall being held against the examination table, but there were gaping holes in his memory. _What did I do wrong?_ he asked himself why he deserved to be hit. "_They both hit me. I think Dave hit me with the gun. He hit my head with something hard. The next thing I remember is being on the floor with Joe on top of me. He slammed my head against the floor and started strangling me. I remember trying to pull his hands off me and knowing that he was killing me. I was dying and then he breathed into my mouth and I had to breathe again."_

"How do you know you were dying?" Madison prodded. A convincing charge of attempted murder could make a strong case and get the perpetrators a longer sentence.

"_I think my heart stopped. I saw the light," _He was hesitant to write the part about seeing a light. It was cliché, but it was true. He knew in his soul and in his mind that he had been seconds from death. If anything had come of this ordeal it was that he was certain, absolutely certain for just a moment, that there was an eternal home waiting for him.

"Do you think it was real? Could it have been a hallucination from lack of oxygen?"

Chase was not sure how to explain, but it in all the fog of memories one of the clearest was the moment he knew that it was over. He had been fighting for air; his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest; his hands were pulling against Joe's grip. Then there was nothing. He no longer feel his heart beating or the anguish of struggling to breathe. He could not feel hands clamped tightly around his throat. His own arms had fallen to his sides, no strength left in them. All he felt was the desire to keep moving forward. It seemed much longer than the few seconds that it had taken for Joe to jerk him back to the tortured body he had left. _I felt a second of eternity_, he thought, awed by the idea.

"_I believe I was dying," _he wrote. Somehow this defied explanation. It was a matter of faith. It was none of their business anyway. He knew House would call it an anomaly of the brain shutting down. He would demean it and demean Chase for believing it. Chase refused to let anyone have the power to take that glimpse of peaceful certainty from him.

"Joe choked you, but then stopped you from dying?"

"_Yes."_

"I need to ask you some specific questions about the strangulation. What did he use to strangle you? Did he shake you?"

"_He used both hands, pushing his thumbs into my windpipe. He slammed my head against the floor, but I don't think he did that while he was choking me." _

"How much pressure did he use? Was it continuous pressure? How long did it last?"

"_I'm not sure. Enough that I couldn't breathe. No, it wasn't constant,"_ Chase realized. "_He would sort of let go just a bit so I could breathe for a second and then use more pressure so I couldn't. He never let up for more than a second or two, but he did alter the force."_ It was the first time he had considered that Joe had actually been prolonging the experience by not cutting off air completely. Somehow that seemed even more disturbing to him than the idea of Joe expediting the process.

House deduced that the altering pressure and possible altering pressure points had likely contributed to swelling and fractures within the structures of Chase's throat. He was able to do more damage by prolonging the attack.

"Can you demonstrate the way he had his hands on your neck? You can use me."

Hesitantly, Chase placed his hands around Madison's neck, though he applied no pressure and barely made contact. He moved away quickly.

"Did he say anything to you while he was choking you?"

Chase thought for a moment. He could see Joe above him, the maniacal look in his eyes. Another memory surfaced. "_He said it was amazing, asked me if I thought it was amazing."_

It clicked with House at that moment. They were looking for someone with an asphyxiation kink. Joe likely associated not breathing with great sex and had fixated on Chase because of the near death experience. He had managed to cause terrible damage without killing Chase because he had practice with controlling that kind of contact. The idea of being trapped in a game with these deviants was repulsive to him.

"Describe his facial expressions and demeanor."

"_Insane. He was intense and happy. His eyes were like a wild animal or something." _Chase doubted that the image of that face would ever leave his memory again.

"Was he wearing any rings, anything that could have left a mark?"

"_No." _

"What did you do to protect yourself?"

"_I fought against him. I had my hands around his wrists, trying to pull him off of me. I tried rolling away from him and pushing him off of me."_

"Did you scratch him?

"_Probably. I'm not sure."_

"Did Dr. Foreman assist you in any way?"

"_No," _he answered, considering it. A vision of Foreman's lab coat, the _back_ of Foreman's lab coat appeared. _He turned his back_, Chase realized. Foreman had turned his back and let the men do whatever they wanted without so much as a word. _Why does he hate me so much? _

"All right. What happened after he tried to strangle you?"

"_I don't remember anything else,"_ Chase wrote._ "Except that if I tell anyone they'll come back and kill Foreman and everyone else I care about."_ He found himself wishing that he did not care about Foreman. It was obvious that the other man thought he was worthless. _Why didn't he ask them to stop? Because they had a gun, you idiot,_ Chase snapped at himself. _You are worthless. Why should anyone risk their life to help you? You're an idiot, a stupid, useless idiot. Stop thinking you can make anyone care about you. Trash. You're not worth it. You never have been and you sure as hell never will be. Not now. Not after what you did. You should have died when you had the chance. You think God will still take you after what you let them do? You can't even die right, you moron. _

"Chase!" House called for the third time.

Finally recognizing the voice, Chase blinked a few times and looked at House expectantly. House nodded toward the policeman on the other side of the bed. Chase turned to look at him.

"Were you assaulted further?" Madison continued his questions. He did not have time for the trauma drama.

"_Yes."_

"Describe what happened."

"_I don't remember."_

"Then how can you say you were assaulted further?"

Chase was angry and frustrated. He wanted to avoid this. "_I have the documented injuries to prove it,"_ he answered.

"You don't remember sustaining those injuries though?"

"_No."_

"How can you say for sure that Joe caused them?"

"_Ask Foreman. Compare DNA samples."_

"How can you not remember?"

"_Head injury. Oxygen deprivation. Take your pick." _He left repression, dissociation, denial and any other useful defense mechanism off the list of options.

"Those are legitimate reasons for memory loss," House supplied a bit of medical expertise. "Pushing him may or may not make him remember, but at this point it could have a negative impact on his physical recovery. Change your line of questioning or I'll have to ask you to leave," he said, noting Chase's blood pressure and heart rate. Here was excellent evidence that blood pressure could be severely affected by stress. He decided he would administer another sedative as soon as the detectives left.

The detective nodded. "What do you remember next, after being told not to talk?"

Chase searched his memory. He was looking for the moment that defined the separation of his old existence as the Australian intensivist who held the record for lasting the longest with House's fellowship and his new existence as the pathetic rape victim.

"Being in the hallway in a wheelchair," He could remember holding House's cane and looking at Cuddy's shoes so he did not have to listen to everyone around him arguing.

"Can you tell us anything else about your attacker?"

He considered the question. "_Joe smokes. A lot. His breath tasted like cigarettes and his teeth were yellow. His fingernails were yellowish too."_ It was nauseating for him to remember the taste and smell of the man. His stomach turned at the memory of his tongue trying to force it's way into his own mouth. "_He had an appendectomy scar from many years ago. He had another surgical scar, more recent. He probably had his gall bladder removed within the last year."_

Madison nodded, almost impressed. It was the first time he had ever had a victim speculate about their attacker's medical history. "Did you notice any distinctive characteristics about Dave?"

Chase thought for a moment. "_He had a swirling tattoo on his right wrist, letters, but I didn't really see them well enough to read them. Blue ink."_

"One more thing. I want you to look at these portraits and tell me if they look like the men who attacked you." Madison pulled a large manila envelope from his bag. He opened it and produced copies of the drawings that had been made based on the security camera's footage and Foreman's recollection of the men's faces. He placed both pictures in front of Chase and allowed him to study them. "Look closely."

Chase was repulsed and fearful when he saw the faces staring back at him. Seeing the photos only served to slightly alter the memories of their faces in his mind. "_That's them,"_ he wrote and turned away. Maybe they were not exactly as he had pictured them, but the portraits were accurate enough that he would rather agree with them than study them and risk remembering more details of what they had done to him.

"Are you sure nothing needs to be changed?"

"_Foreman wasn't hit in the head and strangled. His memory is clearer than mine anyway," _Chase justified to himself why Foreman would be able to help an artist render a more accurate portrait than he could. He hoped that Madison had meant it when he had said "_One _more thing." He was emotionally exhausted.

"Fair enough," Madison answered, taking the portraits back. "I think that covers everything. If any more questions arise, I know where to find you. An official transcript will be compiled that both you and Dr. House will have to sign."

At this point, Marty Simms turned off the digital recorder while Madison took the micro recorder. Simms took the notebook from Chase. The two policeman said a polite farewell and left Chase and House alone.

Exhausted, Chase laid his head on his pillow and turned onto his side.

"You did the right thing," House assured him.

Chase huffed. He had been waiting for House's approval for three years and he finally got it for being forced to relive the worst experience of his life. He closed his eyes to shut out the world.

House sat a moment, pondering some of the things Chase had written. Foreman had some issues that he was denying. Chase had a worrisome amount of memory loss, assuming that he was telling the truth about the blank period between the strangulation and finding himself in the hospital hallway. He felt less strongly that the inability to speak was more mental than physical. Believing that another sedative would be in the best interest of Chase's health, he stood to go order the medication.

A glance at his patient found the other man already asleep. His chest was rising and falling steadily and his breath was even. "That's the best thing for you right now," he said in a low whisper, longing for the simplicity of a patient with leprosy.

A/N: I'm not to proud to beg! Please leave a comment. :-) Lots of hits and few reviews makes me cry. Actually, I'd really like to know what you think of Chase's emotional investment in his Near Death Experience.


	13. Chapter 13

Had Eric Foreman not recently been held at gunpoint by two very disturbed individuals, he might think that _this_ was the eighth circle of hell. He was in Petsmart with Allison Cameron and Robert Chase's fluffy orange and white cat.

The mixed smell of animals and animal products was offensive to him. He found the Cat Adoption Center, conveniently located near the cat products, manipulative. He feared that Kacey would be leaving with a new best friend if he did not pull Cameron from the window where she had been viewing the dozen or so predominately adult cats who needed homes.

"Tell me again why we're buying more stuff to take to House's apartment," he said.

"Because neither of us wanted to touch that litter box," she answered. They had stopped here after their search of Chase's home. The store was located almost evenly between the hospital and his apartment.

Cameron had set Kacey's carrier in the cart that she was pushing through the store. "I noticed he used scoopable litter, but I didn't notice a brand, did you?"

Foreman arched one eyebrow. "No," he answered flatly. He did not care what brand Chase usually bought. It was all the same as far as he was concerned.

"Hmmm," Cameron murmured as she studied the various brands of litter. "This should be good--it has baking soda mixed in," she said, pointing to a large yellow and red bag.

Foreman did his manly duty of heavy lifting, putting the forty pound bag under the cart's basket. "Think this is enough?" he asked with just a hint of sarcasm.

"It'll do," she answered absently, heading toward the various litter pans. Foreman thought she may have been seriously considering an automatic model that cost nearly two hundred dollars, but she picked a simple blue plastic pan and set it in the cart on its side so it would not take up as much room as it would have flat. She took a scooper made from the same material and tossed it next to the pan. "Okay, so we should get dishes, food, maybe some toys, what else?"

"It doesn't need any toys. It plays with Chase's socks," he responded. "And why can't it eat and drink out of Styrofoam bowls while it's away from home?" he asked, annoyed. Just because Chase saw fit to buy his cat designer dinnerware it did not mean Kacey would have to have the same in a temporary home.

"Well it's not like Chase can't take the new dishes home with him," Cameron said, sounding offended. She was looking at the coordinating sets. "Look at this--it's adorable." She held up a yellow dish covered in blue flowers, Eiffel Towers, and the words _Bon Appetite._

"They're eight dollars a piece!" Foreman exclaimed seeing the outrageous price.

"I'm not asking you to help pay for them," she huffed, putting two of the dishes into the cart along with a blue and yellow striped plastic mat. "What kind of food does he eat?"

"I don't know, ask him." Foreman sassed.

"What's your problem?" Cameron snapped, raising her voice slightly. "You knew we would have to pick up this stuff if we didn't drag it all down from Chase's apartment."

"This is stupid. That's what my problem is. Do you think it's going to make a damn bit of difference to Chase if his cat has brand new shiny bowls to eat out of?" He doubted there was any room in Chase's mind for such trivialities to matter to him right now.

Cameron stared at him for a moment. "Yeah, I do," she answered evenly. "He needs to know we care."

"Then buy _him_ a new bowl."

"And what the hell does Chase need with a bowl?" she raised her voice again. She felt slightly guilty when she saw a woman not much older than herself shooing her small child away from the aisle to avoid them and their argument.

"He could eat cereal or soup out of it," Foreman offered stupidly.

"Fine!" Cameron nearly yelled, putting a third ceramic bowl into the cart. "I'll get one for him too."

Foreman watched her, disbelieving, and said nothing.

Cameron met his eyes defiantly, waiting for a response and then followed his line of vision to the contents of the cart: a nervous cat in a plastic carrier, a litter box, a placemat, and _three_ kitty dishes. "What am I doing?" she asked, looking at the foolish third bowl. Her eyes filled with tears. "I just want to help!" she said, reaching up to wipe the tears that were beginning to streak down her cheeks. "I don't know what to do to help him." Her breath caught as she took the third bowl and put it back on the shelf.

"I'm sorry," Foreman offered meekly. "I'm being an ass."

"Yes, you are," she agreed.

"At least you're not afraid to be in the same room with him," he admitted with hesitation.

Cameron turned to him, puzzled, "Why are you afraid?"

"I can't face him. Not after what he did--"

"He didn't do anything wrong!" she asserted, assuming that Foreman was judging Chase for what had been forced upon him.

Foreman shook his head, indignant. "You don't get it. I can't face him after what he went through for _my_ sake, to protect _me_. What the hell do I say? Thank you?" He paused, then suggested, "Dude, sorry you had to let some guy fuck you so I wouldn't get shot?" He lowered his voice to keep other customers from hearing him. _Sorry I held you there while he rammed his cock in your mouth,_ he added silently.

Cameron looked down, feeling nauseated at the thought of witnessing the attack as Foreman had. "I'm sorry. I'm being stupid."

"Yes, you are." Foreman confirmed. He would never have admitted it to her, but it stung him that she thought he could be so judgmental as to hold it against Chase that the men had violated him. It bothered him more that Chase probably thought the same thing. As long as Chase was sedated, he had had a good excuse for not visiting his colleague. Knowing that Chase would likely be awake when they got back to the hospital, he wondered how he could avoid a confrontation. He did not want to remind Chase of the part he had been forced to play in the assault, nor did he want to be reminded of it himself. "What else do we have to get for the cat?" he asked, having no desire to continue discussing what had happened.

"I'm sorry," Cameron repeated, not quite willing to move on to the task at hand. She had been so entirely focused on Chase that she had forgotten that Foreman might need a little compassion too.

She reached for the third bowl and put it back in the cart.

"What?" Foreman asked, curious about the odd behavior.

"It's for me," she said. She planned to put it by her kitchen sink. She was sure she could find some use for it. She wanted to see it every day.

He looked at her quizzically. "You don't have a cat." He glanced back at the adoption center. "Yet."

"It's to remind me. Somewhere along the line I've stopped paying attention to the people I should care about most. I'm too caught up in being every patient's best friend that I'm forgetting the people that ought to matter to me every day. I haven't even called my family in three months. My grandmother used to tell me, 'Always be kinder than necessary. You never know what struggle a person is going through_.' _I think she'd be really disappointed in me right now."

"No, she wouldn't," Foreman placated her. "You're the most caring person I know."

"Then I feel sorry for you," she replied, pushing the cart forward. She grabbed a dangly toy from the shelf and held it in front of Kacey's cage to see if he was interested. He was. It went in the cart.

Foreman followed behind her silently. He grabbed a red and white striped catnip filled toy sock and added it to their purchases. He also noticed a two pack of "Australian woobies" and tossed them into the cart, noting that the package claimed they trapped cat hair and were machine washable while providing thermal care that cats loved.

She pointed out a bag of high quality cat food and Foreman picked it up and placed it under the car with the litter. He marveled at the idea of paying so much for "veterinarian recommended" food. It was not that the money was an issue for him now, but it seemed extravagant to spend so much on a pet. He and his brother had had a dog when he was a kid. It ate table scraps.

Cameron led him to an aisle filled with carriers--cloth, plastic, and metal ones of all sizes. Some were very practical and others were anything but. She found a quilted cloth carrier that looked more like a large handbag than a pet carrier. It was denim with pink trim and stitched flowers that were purple, pink, and yellow. "Perfect," she proclaimed, tossing it into the cart. "Now we have everything."

Afraid that she would start crying again, Foreman did not point out that Kacey had a perfectly good carrier or that Chase would not be caught dead toting anything in the one she was planning to buy. It was more suited to Paris Hilton, perhaps.

The total came to one hundred seventy-three dollars and fifty nine cents. Foreman had pulled a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the check out counter.

"I said I'd pay for everything," Cameron protested, handing his money back to him.

"Take the money," Foreman told her. "It's the least I can do." If she thought for one second that buying something for Kacey would tell Chase that they cared about him, Foreman wanted in on it. He watched as Cameron took a hundred dollar bill out of her purse. He refused to accept it when she offered him the change that the clerk gave her. "You keep it."

Too tired to fight about it, she shoved the money in her purse and they left the store.

Foreman loaded the larger items into the trunk of his car while Cameron placed Kacey in the back seat. Once they were all inside, she turned around and opened his regular carrier. It took little encouragement for him to come out to her and she transferred him the denim bag she had just bought.

Foreman frowned as a few strands of orange hair flew into the air and settled on his leather seats.

"Now we can get him into the hospital without arousing suspicion," Cameron said. She would simply look like she was carrying a large tacky handbag.

"Oh, good idea!" Foreman said, realizing now that she had picked the garish bag to follow through on his idea to sneak the cat into Chase's room to bring him some cheer.

Both doctors scanned their bar coded security badges as they entered the hospital. Word was that soon every patient would be getting bar coded "MediPass" cards so that those with chronic conditions would also have an easier time getting into the hospital. Everyone who did not have a badge had to sign in at one of the registration desks which were now located at each main entrance. They were actually folding tables with medical students assigned the duty of handling the registration books at the moment. The plan was to combine the information kiosks with visitor registration areas. Presently, things were still awkward as they worked out the kinks in the new system.

"It's starting to feel like we work in a prison," Cameron commented as she and Foreman headed toward the elevator.

Wilson had filled them in on an emergency board meeting where it was decided that the security budget would be increased by one third of its current allowance. More guards were being hired and better cameras were going to be installed. There was also the addition of the panic buttons in every room. Much of the staff had been outraged when word of the attack spread. First, a doctor had been shot. Now two others had been held hostage and one had been sexually assaulted.

Neither of them envied Chase. Despite any attempts at keeping things confidential, everyone in that hospital had an idea of what had happened to him. It was no more secret than House being shot. It was simply the result of the process of elimination. Chase was the only doctor who was currently a patient. He was the only one that had been seen stumbling out of the clinic disheveled and disoriented. Word had spread quickly that he had been injured even before any details had hit the press.

"You won't find me complaining," Foreman muttered. As much as Cameron wanted to care and understand she really did not have a grasp on what it had been like to be held at gunpoint.

Cameron hoped they had not passed an initiative to search all handbags and purses while they were gone. The new security measures were comforting, but also daunting when one was trying to get a furry animal into the patient areas. Animals were not completely unheard of in the hospital. The long term care wings occassionally had therapists who brought dogs, cats, and even miniature horses to visit with chronically ill patients, at least those whose doctors had determined that the potential benefits outweighed the potential risks being exposed to animals. Animal based therapy was correlated with improvement in many patient cases. Cameron thought that no harm would come from Chase seeing his own cat so long as no other patient was exposed.

They took the elevator to his floor and Cameron whispered, "Be good," to her bag. So far Kacey had been one of the most docile cats she had ever encountered and she hoped he stayed that way. It would be hard to explain how a seven pound fur ball was on the loose in the hospital should he bolt from the carrier.

Foreman wondered why she was whispering since they were the only two people on the elevator. Suddenly feeling as if he were on a spy mission, he decided he would check the hallway prior to letting Cameron exit. He held the door open with his hand as he walked out and looked around. "The coast is clear," he said, motioning for her to join him.

It was not difficult for two known doctors to walk past the nurses' station without question, but the addition of doing something they probably should not made them both more wary and suspicious of anyone who approached them. It seemed like a long way to the end of the corridor where Chase's room was. House had demanded that room as it was farthest from the nurses' station and "had a good view."

"Hi, Dr. Cameron, Dr. Foreman," one of the nurses said brightly. Her eyes zoomed to the carrier, "Um, nice purse," she added.

Cameron could tell from the blush that started to creep across the young lady's face that she had not meant to comment on the bag at all. "Thanks!" Cameron gushed. "My niece got it for me. You can tell she's 13, huh?" she giggled a high pitched laugh that did not suit her. "We'll see ya," she nodded, before quickly heading down the hallway.

"We'll see ya!" Foreman copied with a grin.

"Shut up," Cameron bit back.

They stopped at the door to Chase's room. All of the blinds were shut. Both were hesitant to go inside. Foreman had not been near Chase since the day of the attack. Though Cameron had checked on him several times over the past few days, he had always been asleep when she did. She knew that House was weaning Chase off the sedatives and pain killers and there was a good chance that he would be awake now.

There were "Oxygen in Use," "Approved Visitors Only," and "Knock Before Entering" signs on the door which was guarded by a member of the security staff. Someone was definitely trying to protect Chase from a circus of concerned hospital personnel. It was easy to imagine that some of the staff might drop by to visit just so they could gossip about him. The guard, who was quite used to seeing Cameron going in and out of the room, did not question them.

"I don't think I can go in," Foreman said lowly, though the guard could probably hear him anyway. If Chase was awake, there was no way to predict what he might say about what had happened if he were speaking again. He did not want Cameron or anyone else to know what his part had been in assisting the attackers.

"You have to see him sometime," Cameron told him.

"Doesn't have to be today," Foreman replied.

"Hey, it was your idea to bring the… present," she said, nodding toward the carrier. "I think he should know that."

"You can tell him," Foreman offered.

"The longer you put it off, the harder it will be," she warned.

"I doubt that. Seeing me might make him remember things. It's probably not good for him."

"So, you're going to avoid him the rest of your life?"

"Cameron, you weren't there," he responded wearily.

"No, I wasn't. You were. You're probably the only person in the world who has a clue what's going on in Chase's mind right now. You can probably help him more than anyone else."

He had not looked at it that way. "I want to," he said. But part of him was afraid that he would not be able to look at Chase without seeing what he was forced to do which would make it damn near impossible for him to have a conversation with the younger man. Chase would pick up on that and probably think that he was being judged and it could just make everything worse.

"Don't let anyone else in," Cameron instructed the guard who nodded in reply. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath and pushed the door to Chase's room open.

It was a familiar site for her by now, Chase curled on his side, sleeping. The dim light on the wall above the head of the bed was shining. The glaring overhead light had been turned off so that he could rest more easily. The blinds over the window had also been shut so it was nearly impossible to tell that it was growing dark outside.

The television was on, but the sound was muted. Someone had been watching the Cartoon Network. There was a newspaper in the windowsill along with a few get well cards that Cameron had placed there to brighten the room. One was from the NICU staff. The second was from Dr. Cuddy. The third had been signed by no less than twenty members of the nursing staff. She had felt an odd twitch in her stomach as she first glanced over the list of predominately female names. Seeing the cards again made her wonder why she and House and Foreman had not sent him a card or flowers or something. She put that on her mental _To Do _list.

Cameron observed that Chase looked as if he were sleeping more peacefully than he had most of the other times she had checked on him. It almost seemed a shame to wake him. She checked a chart at the foot of the bed and whispered to Foreman, "He's been sedated again, a few hours ago."

Foreman approached hesitantly. He felt queasy at the site of his colleague. Even though he was on his side, the vicious marks on his neck were visible. He had a hard time reconciling himself to the fact that he had turned his back on Chase while he was strangled and done nothing to help him. The multitude of scratches and bruises on his face were healing. There were dark circles under his eyes. His right arm was on top of the covers and it was dotted with bruises. Some were obviously older than others, remnants of brutish hands gripping him tightly. Another was more recent, caused by the IV port which had to be moved.

"Should we wake him?" Foreman whispered, feeling sick to his stomach. He hoped she would say that they should let him rest.

"We've gone to too much trouble to not wake him," she answered, also in a whisper. "Make sure the door is locked," she directed.

"It is," he replied. He had locked it on their way inside the room.

"Here goes," Cameron said as she placed the carrier on the chair. She pulled Kacey from the bag and set him on the bed.

He started purring immediately and pranced his way from Chase's knees to his face where he butted his head against his master's chin. Chase turned his head, still asleep. With his hand that was free, from the covers, he started petting the cat softly.

In his drug induced sleep, Chase felt like he was at home, in his own bed, though somewhere he knew that his own bed was much more comfortable than this. Kacey was nudging him, wanting him to get up and feed him, no doubt. Or maybe he had stolen a sock from the laundry and wanted to play. He patted the bed by Kacey's feet. No sock. He wanted food or attention.

Cameron smiled when she saw that Chase was smiling.

He lazily rolled onto his back, still stroking the cat. Kacey crawled on top of his chest and laid down, purring loudly.

"Silly cat," Chase's lips moved.

Cameron felt tears slipping down her cheeks. "He's trying to speak!" she could barely contain her excitement in a whisper.

Chase struggled to open his eyes, fighting the mild sedative that House had given him after he had been interrogated by the police. That was not his bedroom ceiling. He felt to make sure that Kacey was real. "How did you get here?" he mouthed without sound. He put his hand to his throat and rubbed it gently, then winced as he swallowed.

He realized that his cat was in his hospital bed and that shock served to jar him out of the sedative's influence. He sat up and Kacey slid from his chest to his lap, stood up, turned around in a circle and laid back down contently.

Foreman backed further from the bed when he saw that Chase was fully awake.

Chase looked from one colleague to the other. Cameron was happy about something. Foreman looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here. He made brief eye contact with Foreman which they both broke away from quickly.

He reached for his notepad and was surprised by the speed at which Cameron managed to pick it up and hand it to him. He tore off the top few pages which included his half of his conversation with Cuddy and folded those pages in quarters before sticking them under his pillow. He did not want to take a chance of having either Cameron or Foreman see that he had been concerned about medical expenses.

He was not sure whether to start with, _Thank you for bringing my cat_; _How the hell did you get into my house?_; or _How did you get my cat into the hospital?_

He wrote, "_Foreman, are you okay?"_

_Damn! _Foreman thought. Chase had to write everything he said and he had _still_ managed to express concern first. "Yeah, I'm, uh, I'm good," he answered. "You?" He wrinkled his nose a bit, disgusted with himself. _Could you ask a dumber question?_

Chase shrugged. Foreman only wrinkled his nose like that when something disturbed him. Of course Foreman was disgusted with him; how could he not be? "_Thanks for bringing my cat. Sorry I can't talk." _He did not attempt to reestablish eye contact.

"But you tried!" Cameron told him, happily. She reached out to pet Kacey too. House had expressed his concern that Chase had not attempted to speak to any of them. She was certain he would be thrilled to know Chase had tried to talk to his cat.

Chase was momentarily reminded of the counselor he had dubbed Ms. Sunshine, but he kept himself from venturing into any thoughts of shoving Cameron out the window. Did they all think he was crazy and too traumatized to speak? The worst part, he realized, was that if they did think that, they might very well be correct. His words were somehow refusing to connect to his throat. Even _he _thought it was not purely medical. Dr. Johnson was going to have a field day with him now. He wondered if his psychiatrist had visited at some point while he was sedated.

Dr. Alan Johnson was someone he had been seeing since he came to work at PPTH. Every doctor was required to have some sort of mental health coverage. He had started seeing Dr. Johnson about once a month since his father had died. At first he had gone only because it was required, but he had eventually opened up and told the man about his mother's alcoholism, taking care of her, watching her die, and how Rowan's death had blindsided him. Initially, Chase was hesitant to try the antidepressants, but he had had such a hard time sleeping and concentrating after his father's death that he had decided it might be best for him and his patients if he gave the pills a chance. He told himself that it was not so disgraceful to take antidepressants. If he were diabetic, he would take insulin. If he had a chemical imbalance, he should respond appropriately. It was better than diving into a bottle of gin, at least.

"So, do you need anything?" Foreman asked awkwardly.

Chase looked toward him, then at Cameron and shook his head.

"I could wait outside," Cameron offered, seeing that they may need a moment to speak privately.

_Traitor!_ Foreman thought. He had no idea what to say.

Chase was unsure as well. He had questions, but was not certain he had the right to ask them. At any rate, he had no desire to ask about the what had happened while Cameron was in the room. He stared at his notepad, leaving it to Foreman to call whether or not they had some time alone.

Everyone looked to the door when they heard that someone was trying to turn the knob.

"Hide the cat!" Cameron squeaked, eyes wide with worry.

Foreman turned and grabbed the denim carrier from the chair and placed it on the bed. Chase picked up Kacey and tried to stuff him back into the bag.

Kacey, having spent most of his day in the confines of carriers, was quite content on his master's lap and protested the change by leaping from Chase's hands onto the floor.

"I'll get him," Foreman said, kneeling to the floor to look under the bed. He hoped that the cat would come to him so that Chase would not have to get out of bed.

"Why is this door locked?" They heard House's voice on the other side and all breathed a sigh of relief that it was not Cuddy or someone who would report them to Cuddy. The relief was short lived as they all seemed to realize at the same time that, while House often used unconventional methods himself, he had not approved this and was about to find out he was getting a second temporary houseguest.

"Chase, open this door now!"

Not wanting House to attract attention from the nurses, Cameron opened the door just as Foreman was retrieving Kacey from under the bed.

"Why do you have the door locked?" House asked Cameron as he pushed his way into the room. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Foreman with his eyes wide and holding what could pass as a very fluffy basketball. "What the hell is _that_?"

Cameron closed and relocked the door.

"Your new roommate," Foreman answered, setting Kacey down on the bed.

House tilted his head slightly and studied the animal for a moment. "And what the hell is it doing _here_?" he asked sternly.

"We thought Chase could use something to cheer him up," Cameron answered.

Chase was slightly offended. She made him sound like a two year old. He watched the exchange while keeping a calming hand on his pet.

"I should've known you'd be dumb enough to bring a cat into a hospital room. Aren't you an immunologist? Don't you know how susceptible to respiratory infections he is right now? Who cares though? Let's take the pretty kitty to work!"

Cameron stood with her arms crossed while House mocked her. He was right, of course. She should have considered that Chase was very susceptible to infection at the moment. Strangulation victims were prone to respiratory distress so their gesture of good will was dangerous and not well executed.

"It was _my_ idea," Foreman spoke up, cutting into House's rant. "I thought it would cheer him up."

"Your idea?" he repeated. "You idiot! They didn't teach you about hospital protocol at Brain Surgeons R Us? No furry beasts allowed, at least not without the attending's permission. What did you think it would accomplish other than easing your guilty conscience? Boy, think of how bad you'll feel when Chase gets pneumonia!" He had no sympathy for his underlings' making such a stupid decision. Even if the cat did not come in direct contact with another patient they could not guarantee his hair or dander would not be left behind.

Chase had stopped watching the other doctors and was trying to block out the sounds of their argument by concentrating on his pet. He was happy to see Kacey and he wished House would shut up about the risks.

"Did the kitty make you all better, Chase?" House asked, turning on his patient.

"He tried to speak," Cameron answered defiantly. "We let Kacey wake him up and he tried to speak to the cat."

House stopped talking for a moment and studied Chase. His eyes were downcast as he held onto the cat, still stroking its back. Depressed patients often responded better to animals than humans. Chase, who had less than stellar luck with human relationships, was a perfect candidate for that kind of therapy. He was aware that Chase had been taking Effexor for months and realized the cat was young enough that he had probably been part of Chase's life for less time than the drugs. Maybe the improvement he had seen in Chase prior to the attack was due to the cat and not the medicine. His vital signs were certainly better now than they had been while he had been questioned by the police and better than they had been in any of the days prior. "Did you say Kacey?" House asked.

"Yes," Cameron answered.

"You named him Kacey?" House asked Chase with a sly grin. "That's clever in a pathetic sort of way."

"You're criticizing what he named his cat now?" Foreman asked. There was no limit to how low House would stoop to jab someone. "What's wrong with _Kacey_?"

"I'm not criticizing. I think it's hysterical."

Foreman sighed, turning the palm of his upward as if to say, "Explain yourself."

"You don't get it, do you?" House laughed. "Kacey as in K. C."

"Explain it, Chase," He turned to Chase to see that he was at least paying attention to them now. "Cat got your tongue? Oh, all right. K. C. stands for Kitty Cat. You couldn't think of anything else to name him, so you called him Kitty Cat for a month until you decided that K. C. would suffice."

Smiling, Chase wrote, "_For a week," _and showed it to House.

House knocked on Chase's head twice and said, "I know how that brain of yours works." He noted to himself that Chase did not flinch or back away from his touch. The cat definitely had a soothing effect. However, it did pose a threat to Chase's recovery.

"Sorry, Chase. Kitty Cat has to go," House announced.

Chase's smile disappeared, his disappointment evident.

House reached to pet the cat and he promptly hissed at him. His blue eyes narrowed and he fluffed his tail. "What? Did you tell him about me?" Unafraid, he let the cat sniff his hand and said, "I'm nicer than Foreman." He pushed the carrier toward Chase and said, "Put him up. He has to go." He did a double take at the carrier, "Is this thing _yours_?"

Chase shook his head and pointed to Cameron.

"That's explains it," House said. "I actually came down here because I have news. I can tell you now or I can make Tweedledee and Tweedledum leave."

Chase scratched behind Kacey's ears before closing the carrier and then wrote, "_It doesn't matter."_

"In that case, I'll tell them now. It'll save me the trouble of repeating it. They finally tracked down Joe Smith's case at St. Sebastian's. He used the name Paul Evans there. However, the social security number he gave there belongs to a nineteen year old college student in Ohio. The number he used as Joe Smith belongs to a sixty-seven year old farmer in Alabama. The address he gave them is a pizza place where no one recognized his photo. They paid two hundred dollars in cash the night he was treated and his bills have been returned to sender. The address he gave here doesn't even exist. So, differential diagnosis on a man using fake names for medical coverage even when he's not plotting a violent crime?"

"He's an escaped mental patient," Foreman suggested, remembering the odd mannerisms and suspicious demeanor of the man.

"He's a con artist," Cameron guessed. "Or he has no money to pay the bills."

"_He's wanted for other crimes," _Chase wrote. It was sickening to think that he was not the first person they had violated. It was even worse for him to think that by the forced sexual encounter, Joe Smith had also exposed him to every other person he had ever had any kind of sexual relationship with and every person that each one of his lovers/victims had ever been exposed to and so forth. His mind tended to run away with the potential numbers until he forced himself to stop imagining the worst case scenario. It was an overwhelming pool of potential disease.

The combination of Catholicism and medical training had made Chase careful in his choice of partners and cautious about exposure. If the sexual guilt drilled into his head from the time he was twelve years old was not a sufficient deterrent to unprotected sex, the knowledge of disease certainly was. The attack was one of the few times he had ever been without protection. He knew that one irresponsible moment was all it took to ruin your health and your life. Though his first round of STD tests had been negative, he would have to be tested again several times over the next few months months. He did have the advantage of starting immediate antiretroviral treatment. Post exposure prophylaxis could be very effective.

"All good guesses," House said. "They're searching the data base for similar cases and similar suspects."

"Maybe they'll get scared and leave the area," Foreman hoped out loud.

"And attack someone else?" House asked.

"I was rather hoping they'd drive off a cliff," Foreman answered. "We don't know any more now than we did to start with."

Chase sighed as the other three continued to bounce ideas around. He wanted this to be over. No more tests. No more medicine. No more fear. He just wanted to go home.

_AN: Please let me know what you think!_

_**zhaara**, thanks for the rec at TWoP last week!_


	14. Chapter 14

Chase managed to tune out most of his team's conversation about the men who had attacked him. He supposed he should care more about what they were saying and actually participate, but he was too downtrodden to believe that the men would ever be found. They had managed to sneak into a hospital, attack him, and escape. They were certainly resourceful enough to avoid the police. He was relieved when Wilson walked into the room with another pint of chocolate milk. His arrival closed that topic of conversation.

"Check out Cameron's purse," House told Wilson as he set the milk down.

As he wrote out another, "_Thank you," _Chase decided he should make some flashcards: _Yes; No; Thank you; I want to go home_. This was getting ridiculous.

"It's… lovely," Wilson said, obviously having a hard time deciding on a proper adjective. It was an odd site: Cameron's bag on the bed, Chase keeping a firm hand on top of the bag as if he were protecting it. But Chase was on drugs; Cameron's taste was not so easy to excuse. He nodded to acknowledge the message of gratitude that Chase had just held up.

"Look inside," House urged. He nudged it toward Wilson.

Wilson looked to Cameron as if asking permission, but noticed the firm glare that Chase gave House when he had touched the bag. Chase was on some really _good_ drugs.

"It's not really my purse," she responded with a sigh. "I got it for Chase."

Wilson snapped his head back to Chase who was tearing the plastic ring from the top of the milk bottle.

"I mean what's inside belongs to Chase," Cameron clarified.

Curious, Wilson picked up the bag. Startled by its weight, he unzipped the top and balked when two bright blue eyes met him. "Pretty," he smiled. "But should it be _here_?"

"No," House answered.

"_Can I go home?" _Chase wrote and handed the pad to House.

"You have ADD now?" he asked reading the somewhat random question. "We made a deal. You start speaking again or you get more tests on Friday."

"What kind of tests?" Cameron asked, latching onto the information with rabid curiosity.

"None that would require your assistance," House snapped, tired of her nosiness about Chase's condition. It was bad enough that he had to take Chase's file home with him every night to prevent her from reading it.

"_I can come back to the hospital if I have to," _Chase offered, barely noticing Cameron's question.

House sighed. "You're still susceptible to infection." He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. He had just reprimanded Cameron and Foreman for that very reason. Either Chase was not listening or he was not remembering. House feared it was the latter.

"_If you're really going to let me and Kacey stay with you for a while, I need to be there to make sure he behaves." _Chase suggested.

"Does he behave in your apartment?"

"_Most of the time." _Chase answered truthfully, almost wistful that his cat was not a destructive little terror in need of constant supervision. It would give him more of an argument. But, no, he had a cat who slept nineteen hours a day and would be perfectly content to stay in someone's lap the other five. His building rules dictated that if anyone had a cat, it had to be declawed. He hated the rule, but complied with it rather than turning the kitten he had found in the parking lot over to the animal shelter, afraid that it would be euthanized. When he was about six months old, Kacey had been neutered and declawed at the same time. Chase was sure that he had been forgiven every time he came home and his shins were plastered with orange and white hair as the cat weaved his way around his legs. Or perhaps it was an elaborate plot to trip him and thus kill him via head injury. _It's hard to tell with cats_, Chase mused, remembering what it felt like to be greeted warmly when he came home from work.

"If necessary, I can send him to the Kitty Kennel where he'll be surrounded by _cat people_." House said the last two words with such disdain that one might wonder how he was going to adjust to having a cat in his home. "The filthy beast has germs anyway."

"_He's healthy and clean," _Chase argued.

"Tell that to your Zyrtec."

Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances, both recognizing that House knew far more about Chase than either of them had suspected. Finding his medication had not been advantageous for the case. It was apparent now that they had just been snooping.

"_I'm allergic to the toxic air of NJ, not the cat." _

Wilson found himself pulled into the discussion. "You kept a rat in a cage in your kitchen and you worry about what germs a cat has?"

"And what kind of traitor will Steve think I am if I bring home a cat?" House asked Wilson.

"He's dead, House. Let it go." Wilson said.

"All the great ones die young," House lamented. The problem with having a pet rat (particularly a pet rat of an unknown age that only got its owner's attention because it was sickly) was that they did not have especially long life spans in the first place. At least part of Steve's life had been happily content. "Probably for the best. Crookshanks there would have ripped him to shreds."

"Chase responds to the cat," Cameron argued, with a covert wink to the patient. "The cat is good for him and will help him heal faster--in my professional opinion."

Chase frowned at her wink and looked toward the window. He told himself he should appreciate her efforts, not resent her for treating him like a child.

"Your professional opinion was that it's okay to bring a cat into the hospital room of a strangulation victim," House responded. "I'm not impressed."

"We just bought two hundred dollars worth of cat products to take to your apartment. Either the cat stays or you're paying us back," Foreman threatened, immediately wishing he had not mentioned it. First, Chase looked positively horrorstruck by the news that he and Cameron had spent so much money on his cat. Second, Cameron had dug her two inch heel into his foot as way of punishing him for his big mouth.

"_I'll pay you back. I have money in my wallet. Where is it, by the way?" _Chase wrote quickly.

"I have it," House answered. "Just keeping it safe," he shrugged when Wilson looked at him suspiciously. No one pressed the issue. Chase's clothes had been collected for evidence, another ugly reminder of what had happened.

"We don't want you to pay us back," Foreman told him, trying to keep his eyes from watering. Cameron could cause more damage than one might think, given how petite she was.

"_No. I have to." _He struggled with the idea of Cameron and Foreman being so generous to his cat, to him. He felt as if he had fallen into some strange dimension where his coworkers had been possessed by pleasant pod people. If this was a dream, it was the strangest nightmare he had ever had.

"No, you don't. End of discussion." Cameron replied. She could have kicked Foreman for mentioning their expenses and wished she had stuck to her guns about not letting him pay for anything. She was certain she never would have mentioned the cost.

"I didn't mean--" Foreman started, but he was cut off by House shoving the cat carrier into his hands with a scowl.

"Take the cat and his stuff to my apartment. Wait for me. I'll be there soon. I need to talk to Chase alone."

Foreman took the carrier and nodded. He had still not made eye contact with Chase again. He quickly glanced toward his colleague. Chase was looking sadly at the carrier and did not notice that Foreman was watching him. Foreman had an urge to take the cat out and give it back to Chase, anything to get that look off his face.

Cameron approached Chase with slight hesitation, but leaned over to hug him, "Feel better," she whispered close to his ear. "Let me know if I can do anything to help." He felt rigid to her, like he was not completely comfortable with her touching him.

Chase was too surprised by the hug to return it. His immediate response was to protect himself from her approach. His mind caught up to her actions a little too late to return her gesture. He thought he should have thanked her, but she was already following Foreman out the door. He noticed that Foreman passed the carrier to her as the left. Somehow it made him feel better to know that Cameron had Kacey, instead of Foreman.

"I'll see you in the morning," Wilson told him. He nodded to House and left. Chase realized Wilson intended to keep bringing him chocolate milk. Did Wilson care or was taking care of him taking care of House by association?

"_I appreciate that you're offering to let me stay with you, but I shouldn't."_

House turned serious. "Look, Wilson told me you were concerned about putting me in danger."

Both were uncomfortable by their mutual recognition of this fact.

"Don't be," House told him. "I'm armed and dangerous." He held up his cane. He leaned in closer like he was about to reveal something very important and very confidential, "Besides, Cameron and Foreman are both idiots. I have to keep you around so my patients won't die."

Chase wished he could have been happy to have a compliment, but he knew House would never have said anything like that to him a week ago. _Eveybody lies_, he thought.

House stood tall again and was blunt about the situation. "Look, they know where you live. They tried to break into your apartment. They _will_ come back and they _will_ hurt you again. It's not just a threat. They attempted to follow through." He cruelly stated it as a fact to frighten Chase into accepting his offer. He watched as Chase closed his eyes for a moment and resigned himself to the reality that he needed to be in a location that would offer him more security.

"_I don't want to put you at risk. I can go to a hotel and no one else will be in danger."_

"No." House did not expand on his reasons. He was not going to tell the truth--that he really did care about what happened to Chase; that he did not want to see him hurt further. He had to control things and the only way he could keep control on this situation was to keep control of Chase, even if that meant putting up with a houseguest and a cat.

House had seen through Chase's stoic mask often enough to know that he felt things more deeply than anyone else realized. Few people could handle recovery from this kind of violence alone. If they let Chase take a month off work and be by himself, he would likely come back to work no better than when he had left.

Chase did not want to thumb his nose at the hospitality, but it was difficult to accept staying with someone else for an indeterminate amount of time. He had an apartment with his own stuff organized the way he liked. He had to get his mail so he could pay his bills. He had milk in the refrigerator that was probably out of date. He needed to clean out the litter box. He had a deadline for an article he was writing. _At least I don't have any plants_.

Frustrated that he still had to write everything he wanted to say, Chase penned, "_I appreciate that you're letting me and my cat stay with you. I'd really like to leave the hospital ASAP."_

"You know I want to run more tests."

"_Is that really necessary? Can't you give me more time to heal and respond to the medications." _He was currently being given antibiotics, antiretrovirals, H2 blockers, systemic steroids, pain medicine, and occasional sedatives in addition to his daily medicine for depression and allergies. Many of the medicines had been prescribed in shot form to spare his throat from swallowing pills. A few had to be swallowed which was still quite painful. All things considered, it was amazing that he could even hold his head up, much less have a conversation about wanting to go home.

"You have to stay a few more days, tests or not. The injuries make you susceptible to respiratory infection. The steroids give you a lower resistance to _any_ infection. If you ask me one more time if you can go home, I'm throwing in a MRI to check for brain damage. Your short term memory sucks."

Chase sighed and frowned. The American healthcare system had its quirks. He had seen the elderly "discharged" and checked back in two hours later (without ever leaving their rooms) to play Medicare's game. He saw people sent home from invasive "outpatient" procedures in less than twelve hours; but his cat had been able to stay at the vet's office overnight when he had been neutered, thus getting better post operative care than most humans.

He wanted to be released and his doctor would not allow it. Yet, if he were his own doctor, he would demand more time in the hospital too.

"_Maybe I would heal faster if I was not in the place where I was attacked and if I was not surrounded by nosy coworkers," _he suggested.

"Maybe if you would say something I would not feel compelled to investigate your muteness."

Chase narrowed his eyes, hit with a surge of anger and resentment. House knew exactly where to poke a sharp stick to get him to give up his quest.

There was a knock on his door and it was pushed open by a nurse carrying a cup of pills. He studied the antiretroviral, three medicines in one pill that he had to take twice a day. The sight of that one always upset him. He had a hard time grasping that he had been potentially exposed to HIV. Even when he had slept with Cameron after her scare, the risk was only in theory. Her potential exposure had practically no chance of causing an infection. And they had, of course, used protection. He told himself to stop sulking and be glad that he did not have to take twenty-four pills a day as he would have had to do a few years ago.

House watched as Chase took his medicinal cocktail one at a time, wincing every time had to swallow and following the mix with the milk. He refrained from making an empty promise like, "You won't get sick." It was unlikely, but still an all-too-real possibility. What he did say was, "I should go. Foreman and Cameron are waiting for me."

Chase nodded and watched House as he walked to the door. There was nothing left to discuss.

"I won't kick the cat," House promised on the way out.


	15. Chapter 15

_January 19_

True to his word, House had kept Chase hospitalized for another three days and subjected him to another battery of tests, including another laryngoscopy. While his first one had been the indirect type with the mirror that would give a quick assessment without risking further damage, the second had been a direct rigid laryngoscopy. It would provide more detail than the indirect, but also required fasting for eight hours prior to the procedure, general anesthesia, and a new batch of doctors being involved in his case.

Chase resented it more than any of his colleagues could imagine. As he was given the anesthesia, he realized that he would completely vulnerable to anything anyone wanted to do to him while he was unconscious. The facts that the procedure would be videotaped and no one could really hurt him without an elaborate conspiracy carried out by an entire team of doctors did not factor into his considerations. He only thought of not being able to do anything to defend himself as he gave into the medicine.

As he woke from the anesthesia, he felt as if he were being strangled all over again. He could not quite get the air he needed into his lungs and had panicked. He kept trying to tell someone that he could not breathe, but it was impossible for him to make a sound. He barely remembered a blurry figure standing over him telling him, "Relax, Dr. Chase. Sometimes it's normal to have trouble breathing when waking from a general anesthetic."

He found he hated being addressed as "Dr. Chase" at that moment. Did this blur not know that patients respond to the use of their first name? It was more calming to be addressed in a personal, friendly manner than by a cold title. At least that is what someone taught him in Australia.

The next thing he knew, he was being wheeled back to his room by Cameron and two orderlies dressed in pea green scrubs. He did not recognize either of them. One was a short Asian man with graying streaks in his dark hair. The younger Black man was much taller and looked as if he lifted weights. The two of them transferred him from the gurney back to his bed in one swift motion that left Chase's head spinning even more than the anesthesia did. The two men left, but Cameron stayed with him.

He assumed she had sat there for a couple of hours while he continued to doze because she was still there when he awoke, very thirsty.

She was up and by his side in seconds, handing him a plastic cup filled with ice water, "Start with this," she told him.

He smiled at her. _She must have some kind of distress radar. _He took a sip that felt odd. Now he had post-laryngoscopy pain in his throat in addition to the damage from the trauma. He had a warped sense of time from spending so many days hospitalized. He had spent so little time awake, that it felt as though only a day or so had passed. Cameron had been a fairly constant presence when he was awake.

"You have hematomas of the vocal fold and quite a bit of swelling that's causing paresis. There's a small fracture in the thyroid cartilage, but it's non-angulated. There's no displacement. No need for surgery." Cameron told him with a sincere smile. "You just need to some more time to heal."

Chase nodded and wished very much that he could say to House very loudly, "I told you so!"

"It's really good news. No permanent nerve damage!" she added, disappointed that he did not seem as happy about it as she had expected. "You're still groggy, aren't you?" She brushed his hair from his forehead and pressed the back of her hand to it and then his to his cheek to feel for a temperature. It was an unexpected gesture since Chase had not had a fever at any point during his stay.

"You can have something more substantial than water to drink in about an hour," she promised. "I can get you whatever you like. More chocolate milk?" she suggested. "I know you like pomegranate juice too. Do you think you can handle that yet?"

Chase met her eyes with a questioning look. How did she know he liked pomegranate juice?

"I've seen you drinking it before," she shrugged. "But it's kind of acidic, isn't it? Probably not a good idea," she rambled. "Milk is really best right now. Or maybe some kind of creamy soup? Do you like potato?"

He nodded.

"You must be absolutely starving," she frowned. She estimated that he had lost more than five pounds since he had been attacked.

He shrugged to convey, "_Not really." _He did not have enough energy to try to write anything at the moment. He had not had much of an appetite. Sometimes he got hungry, but it seemed like it was only when his body had reached a point of desperate need. Thanks to Wilson's never ending supply of chocolate milk and a bountiful stock of nutritional supplement drinks, he had had his choice from a variety of liquids untainted by hospital chefs.

"You definitely need something warm and filling. You know there's an Irish pub a few blocks from here. I'll call in an order and go pick up something for us for lunch," she decided. "They have really good potato soup. I think you'll like it. It's very cheesey and smooth." She already knew she would get the same for herself, rather than eating anything in front of Chase that he could not have.

He nodded and started to reach for his pen. _I should have studied Sign Language instead of Latin_, he thought, remembering his studies while in the seminary.

She stilled his hand. "It's okay. You're welcome." She was pleased when he smiled. "Drink some more water," she urged. "You need to stay hydrated."

He did as he was told.

"You know you can go home with House tonight after work. I bet you're really looking forward to getting out of here."

He nodded. After House's "They _will_ find you and they _will_ hurt you again" spiel, he was reconciled to not returning to his own home for now.

"House and Foreman are working in the clinic. Or Foreman is anyway. We haven't had a new case this week," she informed him. The truth was House had vehemently turned down two cases, by listening to the symptoms and then spouting out some ideas for the referring doctors to try.

Chase was surprised that Foreman was back in the clinic already. He shuddered at the thought of having to return to clinic duty.

"I got you another pair of scrubs to change into before you leave. I put them in the bathroom already. When you feel a little more steady, you can shower again. It takes a few hours for the general anesthesia to wear off. Maybe after we have lunch."

Chase could tell that sometimes she stated the obvious just to have something to say. While it would have annoyed him a month ago, he found it oddly comforting now. He was thankful that she was not avoiding him the way Foreman was. She was definitely not treating him as she normally would, but this was better than if she had refused to face him, disgusted by him and what had happened. Foreman had not been to see him again and Chase was certain that he would not have come around the first time if Cameron had not forced him. It hurt him to think of Foreman. He was left wondering if Foreman blamed him for what happened.

"What's wrong?" Cameron asked. Since she had started actually paying attention to Chase's face, she had found that he was very expressive. It was another revelation to her of her self-centeredness. Chase had not suddenly changed into someone whose emotions danced in his eyes just because he could no longer speak. He had always been this way and she had been too caught up in other things to notice. She reckoned his introversion had hidden much of who he was and she had not made an effort to see what he had offered.

Chase shook his head, denying there was anything wrong. He could not admit to anyone that Foreman's opinions were worrying him so deeply.

"Everything is going to be okay," she patted his arm. She longed for something more encouraging to say. She knew better than to promise that the men would be caught quickly or that he would be able to go back to his own apartment soon. She handed him the remote control for the television. "Do you want to watch something while I go get our lunch? I need to go look up the number and place the order."

Chase nodded and took the remote from her.

Cameron tried to make eye contact, but Chase was expressly looking away from her now. What was going through his mind was an intricate mystery. The slack muscles of his cheeks and the downcast eyes let her know his mood had swung to despondency and she had no idea what, if anything, in what had been said in the last few minutes had led to that. He had just smiled what she was certain was a real smile, but whatever positive spirit he had before had disappeared in a flash.

"Do you know of anything else that you need? Anything at all?"

He shook his head, still staring away from her.

Uncertain of what she could do to improve his disposition, she promised to return as soon as she could.

Chase watched her go and wondered if things could ever be normal with Foreman again.

_AN: This chapter was completely unplanned, but my Cameron seems to be demanding more screen time. LOL Thanks to everyone who has taken time to leave comments. :-)_


	16. Chapter 16

Chase had enjoyed his lunch with Cameron, glad that he was able to have some "real" food. She had spent most of the day keeping him company. She talked. He listened. They watched some sitcoms. He dozed. Cameron gathered the things that Chase would need to take with him when he was discharged. She placed his meager assortment of cards, the notepad and pen, and a crossword puzzle book into a plastic drawstring bag that she confiscated from the maternity ward where they used them send home samples of various products for newborns.

"I can dump the flowers," Cameron offered. She had a fresh arrangement sent from the gift shop, using the change she got back at Petsmart.They had not held up very well though. Petals were falling off the roses and the carnations were drooping. "They're probably dangerous for cats anyway, right?"

Chase nodded.

"I think House took your wallet, watch, and messenger bag home with him already," she told him. She had gotten socks and a pair of shoes from his locker since the pair he had been wearing when he was attacked was now somewhere in the forensic lab of the PDP, not that they were likely to provide any evidence.

House came around eight o'clock and asked why Chase still had his lazy ass in bed. He was followed into the room by a nurse with a wheelchair.

"He's ready to go," Cameron said.

Chase was in a clean pair of light yellow scrubs, his sneaker clad feet on top of the sheets. He turned the television off and got out of bed as soon as House walked into the room. He did not even object to riding out in the wheelchair.

Cameron grabbed her purse which she had left in his room since lunch and said, "I'll walk out with you."

So three doctors and a nurse made an uneventful exit from the hospital. House's car was parked near the front entrance.

The winter's night chill felt wonderful to Chase, the first breath of fresh air he had had in more than a week. He suspected House delayed leaving until a late hour so that he would encounter fewer of his coworkers along the way. The stars were blocked by the glow of the streetlights, but he looked to the sky anyway, taking in the surroundings with a new appreciation. Had things gone a different way, he never would have felt the night breeze rustling his hair again. Breathing in even the toxic air of New Jersey was wonderful.

"I'll come visit," Cameron promised, giving Chase a hug before he got into House's car. He nodded, hoping that she would. He was certain he would be bored out of his mind within a week.

He overestimated.

_January 24_

Chase found himself in his boss's apartment five days later, going stir crazy with no escape. His vehicle was still at the hospital, not that there was any way he would be allowed to drive while he was on all the medications he was having to take. He supposed the best part was that he was drowsy at least sixteen hours a day and that did make the time pass more quickly, but it also had him on odd schedule. He might be awake at three in the morning and sleep until noon. His pain medication had been decreased, but not abandoned and it demanded that he sleep while antiretrovirals had the annoying side effect of causing incredibly vivid dreams that made resting difficult. There had been one wherein he was certain he saw one of his favorite Fathers from his days in seminary taking defenseless puppies away from their mother and tossing them into a garbage bin. Chase had been mortified. He was supposed to be inside a banquet hall speaking to a group of esteemed guests, all colleagues of his father. Instead, he was dressed in an expensive suit, but leaning into the bin, searching through the garbage, trying to find the animals before the waste management truck came and crushed them. He found one tiny blondish-beige puppy before he woke up and shook the images from his mind, wondering how in the hell his subconscious had managed to create something so warped.

Chase wandered into the bathroom to wash his face and stared at his reflection. Kacey followed.

He realized he looked hollow. His face was too thin. His neck still bore the faint marks of crazed hands, though they were getting lighter every day. He licked his lips. He tried to think of something to say and felt stupid because he could not think of anything. He looked down at Kacey, sitting on his haunches, purring warmly. He looked back at his own face and touched his throat, running his fingers up and down the length as if he were trying to diagnose the problem.

He decided to try to call his cat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, then parted his lips. He tried to force out the "K" sound, but only elicited a small puff of air. He tried again, but there was still only breath.

He told himself that even if he could speak, the damage may make it hard to hear. His voice would probably barely be a whisper at first. But that "K" would not have even registered as a whisper.

He sighed. He would go back to basics. He tried to remember what he could about phonology from the child development classes he had taken. Maybe a "K" was not the best place to start trying to speak again. He should start with an "M." _This is stupid_, he thought, pressing his lips tightly together. He forced breath upward and heard a little nondescript something. Despite the sharp pain, he was pleased. He tried again. This time the little puff of air sounded almost like a syllable, a very soft "muh." He tried again and got a barely audible "wuh."

Suddenly paranoid, he glanced at all four corners of the bathroom ceiling. If House had installed security cameras, he was going to be in for the laugh of a lifetime. He turned to Kacey again. The cat looked up with his head tilted to one side.

He played around with a few more consonants, realizing that it would be a while before his vocal chords were strong enough to get a message across. It felt like something was shredding them every time he attempted another phoneme and the best he could emit was a soft wispy sound. _It's a start_, he thought, heading back to the living room. His head was starting to spin again thanks to the consistent doses of narcotics. He fixed himself a glass of water as he passed through the kitchen and set it on a plastic coaster on the end table between the couch and recliner.

Though Wilson preferred sleeping on the couch, Chase discovered that he liked the cloth recliner better. He found it to be quite roomy and soft. He had a blanket, the quilt his grandmother made, and an electric heated throw that Wilson had bought to use when he was there. House did not like the stuffy air that came with using the central heating unit, so he would not let it be set above sixty-eight degrees. This was not warm enough for Wilson and Chase found that he agreed with the oncologist. But he who owns the house sets the thermostat. The electric throw kept Chase quite warm, even set on low.

Chase settled into the chair, wrapping up in the covers. Kacey hopped up and curled next to his side. He started to watch some television, but found himself thinking of Cuddy's last visit the day before he had been discharged. She had come in with the hospital lawyer and an advocate that had been assigned to Chase and kicked Cameron out with a, "Shouldn't you be in the clinic?"

Some of his worries had been alleviated when they told him of his medical leave. Due the extent of injuries sustained on the job, he had been given a six week leave of absence with full pay, including the days he had been hospitalized. He was informed that he could take as many as twelve weeks if necessary, but that would be determined later. Chase was grateful that he had time to heal. If his little experiment with phonics was any indication, he would need a while to get his voice back to normal.

The advocate, a forty-something Black woman named Helen Harper, told him that employees who took the leave were usually required to sign something stating that they would not sue the institution offering the deal. But, because Chase was on so many medications, he could not be held by any such agreement. He did not have any family or anyone with a power of attorney to make that kind of decision for him.

Chase had once again reiterated that he did not want to sue the hospital. This made the lawyer, a stiff man in his sixties, smile until Mrs. Harper had reminded them that nothing Chase wrote was legally binding because of his altered mental state.

He had asked to speak to Cuddy alone, but the lawyer had thwarted the idea. Ten minutes after the group had left, Cuddy had returned with an apology for leaving. "I have to play their game," she shrugged. She was dressed in a form fitting black skirt with a red cashmere sweater under a tiny black jacket.

Chase nodded and wrote, "_Please stop bringing in more people. No more counselors, lawyers, advocates, anyone. I don't want anyone to know what happened." _

"I'm sorry," she said. The words were delivered at an unusually slow pace. The way she said it let him know that she meant she was sorry for more than the string of professionals sent his way.

He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him to hear, "The details have not been leaked. But due to news coverage and a few loose lipped employees mentioning that they saw you injured the night of the attack, it's a common assumption that you're the doctor who was assaulted when the 'two armed and dangerous men held two doctors hostage and sexually assaulted one of them.'" She quoted part of the tiny AP wire report. She had read it at least a hundred times and recited it in her mind at night, horrified that it had happened at her hospital to her staff.

Chase could feel the blood draining from his face as the shock settled upon him. He took a couple of deep shaky breaths as he tried to process what she was saying. It was not just the Diagnostics team and the doctors and nurses who had treated him who knew. Even those limited numbers had left him troubled. He knew the way gossip spread at this hospital. She meant that _everyone_ knew.

He felt nauseated and on the verge of tears that he did not want her to see. He wrote, "_You said I had confidentiality," _remembering her promise during the exam. He felt as if he were being crushed under the weight of hopelessness and shame that came from knowing his secret was no secret.

"Chase, I'm sorry. No one has told anyone anything specific. It's like I told you, people talk and they put two and two together. Public safety and law enforcement dictated that limited details were released to news agencies so the public would recognized the potential danger. Word got out that you were seen injured _first_. _Then_ the news reports were seen. No one who really knows what happened specifically identified you, but speculation and gossip is centered around you."

Chase swallowed the bile that was making its way into his throat.

"I'm sorry," she said, sincerely sympathetic to what she imagined that he was feeling.

"_I can't come back here," _he wrote.

"Please don't make that decision hastily," she urged. "Give it some time. It won't seem so bad."

"_How would you know?"_

She closed her eyes and frowned. "I wouldn't." She sat on the edge of his bed. "I honestly can't comprehend what you're feeling right now. I don't want to minimize it either, but this will pass. People will find other things to talk about." She hesitantly offered, "I can also tell the department heads to tell all the staff that anyone heard discussing this case is subject to immediate dismissal or suspension." It was a drastic measure to keep him on staff, but she was well aware of his value as an intensivest and his burgeoning skills as a diagnostician.

"_Doing that would probably just make people talk more because the ones who don't already will have reason to."_

Cuddy nodded, "That's probably true." She patted his hand. "Don't let what people may or may not be saying make you leave. You must love this hospital. You've put up with House for three years. I have no doubt that you could get a job anywhere. There just aren't enough intensivists out there. But we don't want to lose you."

She could tell from his eyes that he did love the hospital. "Don't let one incident change your entire life. It only has as much power as you give it."

How much power was he giving it, he wondered? For that matter, how much power were the others giving it? Was he taking his cues from them? They appeared to believe the threat was real enough to justify moving him in with House. But, for how long? He wondered how long until House would grow weary and kick him out. Wilson had stayed a long time, but Wilson was his best friend. He was… an inconvenience.

Chase found being here almost as confining as the hospital, only with the added weight of feeling like he was somewhere he did not belong. House had not said a word about what Chase could or could not do, but he had imposed restrictions on himself: bathroom, kitchen, living room, TV. He had asked permission to use the computer to pay some bills online and set up some automatic withdrawals from his bank account to take care of future bills from his apartment for the time being.

House was surprised that Chase had asked permission to use the computer and told him he could use it whenever he wanted as long as he stayed out of his personal documents and away from "hotmidgetlesbiansexdotcom" because it was littered with viruses.

Though House had never said, "Don't touch anything," Chase was certain that rule was understood. It also made things very boring. His head was too messed up from medication to stare at a computer screen very long, so his internet browsing was short-lived. If he was online more than about five minutes, everything on the screen would start swirl and wiggle before his eyes.

Chase spent most of his time sleeping or watching television or tending to the cat. He had been overwhelmed by all the things Cameron and Foreman had bought for Kacey. There was no doubt in his mind that Cameron had picked the flowery ceramic dishes. They went well with the denim carrier. He tended to the litter box that had been set up by the garbage can in the kitchen every time Kacey had the urge to use it.

He was pleased that the cat had been well-behaved, sticking to the floor or the recliner with his master. Kacey knew he was allowed on precisely two pieces of furniture at home: the couch and bed. This limitation had transferred itself to House's apartment. He would jump on the recliner with Chase or sleep on the floor next to him on one of his thermal pads. Chase believed that the pad was the best cue the cat had as to where to stay and was glad that someone had picked up a pack. He was also grateful for the cat toys because they kept them both occupied at least for a few minutes until one or both got bored.

Chase wondered if it was possible to think oneself into insanity. He was startled to realize he had spent no less than ten minutes studying the details of a brass horse on the shelf. It was so old that it had turned black from oxidation. He wondered where it had come from originally--possibly the Far East. He assumed it was too old to be from the American cowboy era. Also, its bridle and the blanket over its back were far too ornate to have been in the Old West. It was more likely a regal steed on an Empirial mission.

He was too groggy from his medication to do anything energetic, like scrubbing the bathroom floor, though the thought had occurred to him almost every time he walked into the room. _In a few days,_ he thought, then realized that he would still be here in a few days.

He got bored enough that he braved looking through the kitchen shelves. He considered baking something, surprised to find that House did have a supply of all the basics like flour and sugar. There was even powdered sugar, nuts, and a bag of chocolate chips. He chalked that up to the recurring presence of Wilson whom he knew was a good cook. But, in the end, he decided that he would probably fall asleep and burn whatever he created and also that it would be safer to not call attention to investigating the shelves, at least for a while.

He glanced at the bookshelf, but was not in the mood to read. He was sure the pages would blur anyway. He found that _General Hospital_ was not nearly as interesting as House made it out to be, but randomly noted to himself that the show and his boss had the same initials. He wondered if House had developed his addiction to the soap opera while he was recovering from his infarction.

Chase sighed and realized he did that a lot lately. He was actually looking forward to House coming home. The two of them had coexisted quite well so far. Chase supposed that was partly due to how much he slept and how little he could bother anyone while sleeping. He hoped House had a new case they could discuss. He pulled the covers tighter around him and flipped the lever on the side of the recliner to elevate his feet. The remote control was on the arm of the chair so he turned on the set and began surfing through stations. He paused for a moment on a medical mystery show, but two minutes into the dialogue he realized they were talking about vanishing twin syndrome. Been there. Done that. Boring.

He continued searching until he gave up and settled for a station showing a marathon of _I Dream of Jeannie_. If nothing else, Barbara Eden in that harem costume was enough to keep his attention. He had never seen this show until he had come to the United States and found it endearing. He thought it was strange that Jeannie had called Major Nelson "Master," even after they were a real couple. The leaders of the Women's Rights Movement had probably hated this show. He smiled as Major Nelson weaved another elaborate lie for Dr. Bellows' sake and wondered if the psychiatrist had ever found out the truth.

Chase was surprised to hear a knock on the door. House would not knock. Wilson probably had his own key. He pushed the covers aside and crossed the living room. He looked through the peep hole and saw Foreman. _Foreman?_

He opened the door and motioned for Foreman to come inside.

"How are you?" Foreman asked.

Chase shrugged and led Foreman into the apartment. He went to get a notepad.

Foreman did not sit down on the couch immediately as Chase had expected him to do. He looked around the room and paused at the bookshelf for a moment. He continued to wander slowly through the room investigating things. He kneeled down and petted Kacey, who was still asleep on the floor. He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a tiny toy mouse which the cat ignored.

Chase had written, "Are you thirsty?" and tapped Foreman's shoulder to get his attention.

"No," Foreman answered. He continued to investigate. "So this must be where you're sleeping," he supposed. "Bastard wouldn't let you have the bed?"

"_I don't need it. House does--for his leg." _Chase wrote, again having to tap Foreman's back to get his attention.

Foreman barely glanced at the paper. He was interested in the electric throw.

Chase looked over the taller man's shoulder to see what he was doing. He was shocked that Foreman had taken the electrical chord from the throw and ripped it away from the blanket.

Chase had started to write, "_Why did you do that?" _but did not get the chance to finish.

Foreman turned around. He had the ends of the electrical chord wound around both hands and was approaching Chase. There was a hard, menacing look in his eyes that frightened him.

Chase dropped his notepad and ran to the door. He tried his best to unlock it, but the mecehanism would not cooperate. Foreman jerked his right arm backward, holding it tightly behind him. Chase reached for the door with his left hand, but it too was roughly jerked behind him. He felt the electrical chord being wrapped tightly around his wrists.

Foreman tied the ends together and spun Chase around, pinning him against the door with his weight. He put one hand around Chase's throat for a moment and smiled.

Chase's heart was beating like it could burst through his chest. He looked up at the other man with his eyes full of tears. "Why?" he tried to say. He did not know if any sound had escaped or not. He tried to move away, but found himself completely powerless.

Foreman placed both hands on his shoulders and began pushing as hard as he could. Chase sank to his knees, unable to overpower the other man.

"You're a freak," Foreman said coolly, still pressing painfully into Chase's shoulders. "You may have everyone else fooled into thinking you're a victim, but I was there. You _let_ them do everything they wanted to do to you. I bet you even got off on it."

Chase shook his head, tears starting to stream from his eyes. "No," he tried to say. "No." _I only let them do it so they wouldn't shoot you._ If only he could speak, maybe he could make Foreman understand.

"You're a spoiled little brat who is taking advantage of everyone who pretends to care about you, and I'm going to show them all what a freak you really are," Foreman threatened. "I know you like it rough."

Chase saw Foreman reaching for the fly of his pants and he tried to scream. There was no sound. No one could hear him. It was all going to happen again. While Foreman's hands were focused on his zipper, Chase tried to crawl away from the man. It was almost impossible with his arms tied. He only managed to wind up with his stomach pressed to the floor. His arms were aching. The chord was cutting into him, stinging his flesh. His heart was racing as hands reached down to him, grabbing his upper arms. He knew what was coming next and he tried to scream "Stop!" Foreman started shaking him. "Why?" he asked, begging for a reason. "Why?"

Foreman started yelling his name, "Chase!" He kept shaking him.

"Chase!" Suddenly Foreman sounded like House.

"Chase!" House shook the young man, trying to get him to awaken. He had come home to find Chase thrashing about in the recliner, tears streaming from his eyes, drenched in sweat. He had kicked away most of the covers, but had somehow managed to tangle his arm in the chord of the electric throw. House had not checked, but was sure Chase's pulse had skyrocketed. He was in the middle of a night terror. He noticed that Chase's lips were moving. He stopped calling to him for a second and heard a faint "Why?"

"Chase!" House was troubled that Chase was so resistant to waking. He knew the medication was making him sleep, but this was dangerous. Chase could hurt one or both of them if he kept flailing. With no other option, House wrapped both arms tightly around Chase, holding him as still as he could. "You're safe!" he said calmly, figuring that yelling would only make him more agitated.

"Robbie!" House called, suddenly inspired as his eyes took in Chase's grandmother's inscription on the quilt. "Robbie, you're safe!"

Chase opened and shut his eyes several times and sucked in gasps of air. He leaned into the strong chest and wrapped his arms around the other man, clinging to whatever support was being offered.

"It's okay," House told him, having no idea what else to do. This comforting stuff was best left to someone other than him. His neck felt wet from the tears that younger man was crying. As much as the part of him that did not appreciate physical contact wanted to shove Chase away, the greater part of him could not be that cruel to someone in this much distress. He patted Chase's heaving back. Chase was sobbing into his shoulder. He grabbed a handful of the t-shirt House was wearing and wrapped his fist around it as if he were holding on for dear life. House knew he had not broken down like this since the initial attack and if his statement to the police was to be believed, Chase had no memory of ever crying in the shower.

"Why?"

There was that wispy sound again.

House did not have an answer. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know why." He was certain Chase was dreaming about the attack and was a little surprised that there were not more reports of him experiencing night terrors. Had he had one like this before, someone would have noticed because he had been consistently monitored at the hospital. House supposed it was the buildup of the post-exposure drugs in his system and there was nothing that could really be done about that. Chase had to take that regimen. They might consider an alternate form if the dreams got even worse.

He was pleased that Chase had spoken, that some wall had been broken that allowed him to express himself. He let Chase cry himself into a series of soft, jerky breaths and kept rubbing his back. House looked up when he heard his front door creaking open.

Wilson stood there with a bag full of take out and the most gobsmacked expression on his face that House had ever seen.

Wilson closed the door behind him and set the food on the coffee table. "What happened?" he whispered.

"I got home about ten minutes ago and he was dreaming, apparently something god awful." House answered in a low voice.

Wilson nodded. "That's pretty much to be expected," he supposed. "You're both soaking wet now," he stated. House's t-shirt had damp streaks on his shoulder. Chase was covered in sweat.

The tears seemed to be ending and Chase inhaled a shaky breath. He tried to ask "What happened?" but all the other two doctors heard was a faint "Wh… hh."

House gently pushed Chase back in the recliner and started to untangle the chord that was wrapped around his arm. "You were having one hell of a nightmare when I got home. Want to talk about it?" he asked.

Chase, still groggy, looked up to see Wilson standing behind House, looking very concerned.

Chase shook his head. If either of them knew he had just dreamed that Foreman was trying to rape him, they would have him committed.

"Do you want to take a hot shower?" Wilson asked. "It might make you feel better, help wake you up."

Chase nodded. House stepped away from the recliner and Wilson helped pull Chase to his feet. They were both concerned by how clumsy and unsteady he seemed. Maybe a shower was not the best idea, but neither had the desire to tell him that they did not trust him to not hurt himself.

Wilson kept one hand on Chase's back and guided him to the bathroom. "You can go on and get in the shower. I'll find you something to change into," he offered.

Chase nodded closed the door without locking it. He did what he was told.

Wilson came back to find House staring at the notepad that Chase had set on the end table.

"At least he said something," House said. "It's a start."

_AN: Whew! I am one wiped out duckie. Three updates in three days! I hope you're enjoying this. Thanks for the comments. They mean the world to me!_


	17. Chapter 17

"Has he been having dreams like this a lot?" Wilson asked House as they reheated the food that Wilson had brought with him. He had stopped by an Italian place for take-out. He had gotten tomato basil soup for each of them and meatless angel hair pasta in Alfredo sauce for Chase. He was having the baked cheese ziti, another meatless option, just in case Chase wanted to switch. House was getting a personal oven fired pizza covered in BBQ sauce, onions, mushrooms, cilantro and chicken.

"The kind where he holds me like a teddy bear and cries his heart out?" House asked. "No. If he has been having nightmares I wouldn't know because he's a very quiet houseguest. You could learn a thing or two." He shrugged, "I don't think he has, but I couldn't swear to it. He's not the _share your feelings _type any more than I'm the _tell me your feelings_ type."

"That was decent of you," Wilson told him as he checked the pizza in the oven. He preferred to reheat their meal without the use of a microwave which would just make he pizza tough and the pasta rubbery. He had the pasta in pots on the stove so that it would not burn around the edges. "Chase needed to feel safe." He felt sorry for him since he had no family at all to call upon in this situation.

"He was going to put my eye out if I didn't stop him from thrashing around," House explained, defensively. "Feeling safe was the point of him being _here_ instead of in his apartment." His frustration was evident.

"I'm sure he does feel safer here than he would elsewhere," Wilson said. "You know that stuff he's on causes some people to have vivid dreams. He's just one of those people. Add that to what he's been through and I don't think that horrifying dreams could be avoided. Maybe he's having some really great dreams too, you know, like spaceships and cowboys and finding cures for cancer."

House looked disturbed. "Ew. That's way more than I wanted to know about what goes on in your twisted mind. Cowboy astronauts curing cancer?"

Wilson frowned and huffed. "I'm just saying, vivid doesn't have to mean bad. I've had cancer patients tell me about dreams of gardens and unicorns and pirate adventures. At least you were here when he needed you."

"I could barely wake him up."

"What all is he taking? Maybe it's time to get him off all pain medication, or at least cut it back some. That will help the grogginess."

House nodded. Since Chase was trying to speak now, the pain from his injuries must be subsiding. "He asked me why. Barely. But that's what he tried to say."

Wilson tilted his head just a bit, considering what House had said and the fact that it was _House_ expressing genuine concern for someone else.

House bounced his cane against the floor. "What's the answer? You're good at navigating emotional minefields. What reason do I give him?"

Wilson sighed, stirring the pasta which was starting to steam. "You don't have to have the answer, House. You don't even know the question. You're assuming he was dreaming about the men who attacked him. It could have been something else equally disturbing, but totally unrelated, in which case an answer to why he was attacked would make no sense in the context of the question he actually asked."

"Do you actually think that made sense?"

"It made perfect sense," Wilson turned off both the stove and the oven. "Should we check on him? It's been over twenty minutes." Wilson had gone through the stash of Chase's clothes and picked out a sweat suit. It was freezing in House's apartment. He had noticed that Chase was using the throw he bought and determined that he was also fonder of warmer temperatures than their host was.

"Probably," House agreed. "But I don't want him to think he has no privacy."

Wilson refrained from saying anything. Since when had House cared about anyone else's privacy? The entire diagnostics department had been behaving strangely. Foreman had become distracted and even more irritable than normal. He had been down right hostile to some colleagues who asked simple questions. Cameron often walked through the halls looking as if she had been crying. Wilson had not figured that one out yet. She and Chase did not seem especially close. In addition to their strange behavior, Cuddy was rattled and often sought him out to ask about crazy ideas for security to suggest to the board. He was afraid she would soon want GPS tracking devices to be stealthily implanted in all patients and staff. House was… House was opening his home to someone who did not have an arsenal of information fit for blackmailing him. It boggled the mind.

"Why are you being so…" Wilson searched for a word that might get an answer without putting House on the defensive. "Protective?"

House narrowed his eyes, studying Wilson for a moment.

Wilson expected him to simply walk away and refuse to answer, less he show that he actually did have a heart.

"He needs help," House offered.

"Since when are you helpful?"

"I prefer working with him to working without him."

Wilson thought some sort of vessel may have burst inside his own brain. House admitted that he wanted to work with someone else? "But he's living with you here, not working with you."

"Do you think he will come back to work at that hospital if he doesn't have time and the right environment to get over this?" House did not go on to say that Chase was the only fellow he had ever mentored who actually had the potential to become an innovative diagnostician. Foreman and Cameron were smart enough to come up viable ideas to fit symptoms, but Chase could do that and had the additional ability to snatch a random idea out of the air and make it work. He thought outside the neatly drawn boxes that kept most doctors pinned inside limited possibilities. House had worked too hard to get Chase to a point where he would voice his ideas to let it all be shattered by two predators.

"This is the right environment?"

"His own apartment is out, obviously. If I sent him home with Cameron, her Damage-o-meter would kick into overdrive and they'd be off to the south of France on their honeymoon within two weeks. Cuddy would realize he's actually smart, add that to the great hair and great ass and want to have his baby. You live in a hotel. So unless you think Nurse Brenda--"

"What about Foreman? They were both held hostage. They could help each other."

House snorted. "Foreman would be of no use to Chase."

"Hostage situations make people bond. They should have come out of there with a new--"

"It wouldn't work," House cut him off. "I'm going to check on him." He left the kitchen, closing the subject.

House did not have to interrupt Chase since he was opening the bathroom door just as he started to knock. "Food's ready," House told him.

Chase nodded and followed him back to the kitchen. He attempted to help Wilson set the table.

"Sit. I've got it," Wilson said.

Chase decided he should go get something to write messages with should he have to engage in conversation. He grabbed the pen and notepad and stopped for a moment to stare at the recliner and the mess of covers. His eyes lingered on the electrical chord. He rubbed his right wrist and tried to shake away the memories--both real and imagined--of Foreman binding his wrists together.

From the kitchen, Wilson was watching him closely. He could almost see Chase's mind focus on whatever nightmare he had been having. He nodded toward him sympathetically and whispered to House, "He needs to talk to someone."

"You think?" House asked without as much discretion. The absent minded attention he was giving his wrist removed any doubt in House's mind that Chase had been dreaming about the assault. He still remembered the marks on Chase's wrists and knowing the full story only showed him how incredibly traumatic that had to have been.

Chase came back to the kitchen. He was moving in slow motion. He sat down without bothering to question where he should sit. There were three identical bowls of soup already served and they all had water to drink, though he was sure House and Wilson would probably split the bottle of wine that House had taken from his refrigerator.

Wilson set the pots on the table, "Neither of these have meat, so just get whichever you want or some of both if you want."

Chase nodded, though he was uncertain that he could make himself eat anything. As the others were talking about how good the food smelled, his stomach was turning while he remembered how it felt to have another man filling his mouth. The spicy odors were only contributing to his nausea. He kept swallowing, trying to keep down the suffocating lump that kept forming in his throat.

House watched him. He and Wilson were both ready to dive into their meal, but Chase was hesitant and withdrawn. He dragged a spoon through the soup, almost making it appear like he was interested in it, but his eyes betrayed him. His mind was somewhere far from tomato basil soup.

"This is delicious," Wilson commented. He too had been watching Chase not eat. "I think I could turn it up and drink it." He did.

House followed suit.

Chase heard them and knew they expected him to do the same. _Am I that pathetic? _he asked himself. Did he really need two men trying to trick him into eating something? He bit his lower lip and felt his eyes stinging. _Not now. Not now! _he begged himself. If he simply had to cry, his emotions could at least have the decency to wait until he was alone. _It was just a stupid dream._ Why did he feel like he was being suffocated?

House finished his soup, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and moved on to his pizza. "I think you can cut back on the pain medicine," he told Chase. "Without it, you won't be so sleepy all the time. If you do have more night terrors, it will be easier to wake up."

_I'm sorry._ Chase thought. Had he just clung to House crying or had that been part of the nightmare? He chanced a look at House's shoulder and saw the faintest remnants his tears that had not quite dried, miniscule dark gray spots on an otherwise heather gray t-shirt. He turned back to the soup, telling himself that he better eat it. Wilson had not bought it just so that it could go to waste. He forced himself to drink a spoonful. It felt like swallowing a block. He wished he was in his own home so he could let go of the sorrow that was overpowering him without feeling embarrassed. He forced some more soup, planning to eat just enough to make them think he was okay. He had consumed very little at a time since the attack. They would assume his throat was sore and his stomach had shrunk and no one would have to know about the horrors consuming his thoughts.

Wilson loaded his plate with helpings of both kinds of pasta and started talking about a patient. House made a few comments.

Chase was glad they were talking about something instead of focusing on him. He hoped they did not try to engage him in the conversation. He was barely making progress with the soup. He was startled when a droplet of water hit the table by the bowl. It took a moment for him to realize it was a tear. _No. Stop it. Don't let them see you._ He looked down, letting his damp hair, which was getting a bit too long, fall over his eyes. He brought the spoon to his lips again and thought he might gag, but swallowed the soup. Three more drops hit the table. He tried to discretely brush them away with the sleeve of his shirt.

The spoon clattered against the table. Chase had dropped it, startled when he felt hands on both his shoulders.

"Chase, stop," Wilson said. "You're too upset to eat. You don't have to force yourself." He had noticed the battle Chase was waging with the soup and decided to put an end to it.

Chase shook his head. He did not want them to believe that he was upset. He was not aware that his body was shivering.

"Come on, let's go sit down," Wilson tugged just enough that Chase would get up and walk with him to the couch.

House picked up the pen and pad and followed, shooting a wistful glance at the half of his pizza he had not finished.

Chase sat on the end of the sofa and buried his head against the curved back, wishing he could lean far enough into it that he would just disappear.

House plopped the paper and pen on his lap and said, "Talk."

With a very shaky hand, Chase wrote, _"I'm sorry. Go eat."_

"Not hungry," House answered.

Chase closed his eyes and kept himself turned away from Wilson who was sitting next to him and House who had sat down on top of the coffee table, one leg bent and the other stretched out to the side. He hated this, hated feeling the overwhelming need to cry. He hated being smothered by this sense of fear, shame, and loss. He hated his own timing. If he must have a breakdown, he told himself that he could have at least scheduled it for when House was at work.

Wilson realized that Chase was, in some illogical way, trying to hide from them by keeping his face turned away. "You're grieving," he announced. "You've been through hell. You haven't had a chance to really express how you feel about what was done to you. You've been hospitalized where everyone was focused on your physical injuries and you haven't had time to confront your emotional injuries. You didn't have the freedom to do that in the hospital."

Chase wanted to tell them to go away, but he did not have the presence of mind to write it nor the ability to say it well enough to be understood. He squirmed against the couch, keeping his face away from the other men. _I am not this weak_, he told himself. _I've been through worse._ But somehow his mother's drinking binges, erratic behaviors, and sometimes abusive words and deeds were comfortably familiar. He had no control over her, but he had control over himself. He had been strong enough to stay with her, unlike his father. He allowed his mother to hurt him because he loved her. If she was angry and wanted to yell that he was the cause of everything from her failed marriage to the rainy day ruining her plans, he could take it. Somehow he consoled himself that she really did not mean it. If she was so wasted that she called him an idiot or a mistake, she did not really mean it. She loved him when she was sober. If he did something that displeased her and she slapped him, it was okay. She hugged him when she was sober. She never meant to harm him.

This was different. Those two men had meant it. They sought him out specifically to hurt him. He was not a random victim. He had saved one man's life only to have that man nearly take his. They had threatened and manipulated him into cooperating with them. He had allowed them to hurt him too. What kind of man did that make him?

"Chase, please, look at us," Wilson urged.

House let Wilson do the talking since he was accustomed to dealing with grief-stricken people in need.

Chase became quite still. He could feel tears running quietly down his cheeks as he lost the battle to keep them at bay. He felt as if he had no control over his own body's reactions, so he gave up the struggle.

"Chase?" Wilson pulled him around to face them. The young man looked ragged and empty. The eyes which had always betrayed more than his words showed a tumultuous mix of scarring pain, unbearable shame, and haunting sorrow.

Defeated, Chase reached to wipe his tears. House handed him a white handkerchief which he gratefully accepted.

"It's okay," Wilson told him. "It's okay to hurt. It's okay to be sad, or angry, or whatever it is that you're feeling. It's okay to cry. It's okay to have nightmares. It's okay to lose your appetite. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. It's better to let yourself feel this, whatever it is, than to keep it inside you to fester. It'll eat you alive, just like a cancer."

Chase nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was hold onto so much pain that he turned to alcohol to numb himself. He did not want to go down that road.

"Why?" he whispered the word.

"They're insane," House answered. _Why did they attack me? _was the only question that made sense to House, so it was the one he attempted to answer. "I can't expand further without Wilson finding out some of the details that I'm sure you don't want him to know."

_"What difference does it make?"_ Chase wrote._ "Everyone knows."_

"Cuddy and I are the only ones who know the extent of your injuries. I'm the only one who knows what's in your statement to the police," House informed him.

Chase was grateful. He had expected House to simply tell Wilson everything. The two of them gossiped like old ladies in a beauty salon. Somehow knowing that House had not told Wilson made it easier for Chase to allow House to talk about it in front of his friend. _"If you have an idea, tell me. I don't care if Wilson hears. Cuddy told me the whole hospital knows I'm the one who got hurt." _

"Raped." House corrected him. He realized Chase had never used the proper word. He had refused to even admit remembering the rape, if he did remember it, when he had given his statement to the police.

Chase flinched. Hearing the word was like being slapped.

"You were raped and nearly murdered. No one expects you to be the same as you were before."

__

"I want to be."

"I want my leg to be like it was before my infarction," House replied. It may have seemed callous, but his point was that neither had control of what had happened and both would be permanently damaged.

Chase understood the message and nodded. _"Do you know why they did it?"_

"Why they raped you?" House asked, throwing the word in again just to drill it into Chase's head that that is what happened. Refusing to use the word was a denial mechanism and until he stopped denying it, he would not heal. "I can't be sure, but I'm fairly confident that Creep #1 has an asphyxiation kink. He must have latched onto the idea of you because you saved his life when he was asphyxiating. The way he strangled you with the alternating pressure points and alternating amounts of pressure proves that he was prolonging the strangulation and the fact that he didn't kill you proves that he knew what he was doing, plenty of practice."

Chase shivered. The idea that Joe was adept at strangling someone gave him chills. It also started the impossible number game in his head, trying to figure out to how many sexual partners his exposure could be traced--how many kinky, deviant, risk-taking partners. He had to cut off that train of thought before he got obsessed with the tally.

"You said he asked you if you thought it was 'Amazing.' He gets off on it."

Wilson cringed at the idea of being attacked by someone with such vicious intent. He was a little uncomfortable about being privy to this conversation.

"It wasn't you, Chase. You were unlucky enough to be in the position to save his worthless life. He did not rape you because he found you attractive or because you did something wrong. You never gave him a reason to think you would be accepting of his advances. He did it to exercise power. I think he probably had some sort of issue with the power you had to save his life and he either did not like for you to have that much power or he wanted to show he could hold your life in his hands or, well, I don't know." House paused, "I don't pretend to know how the mind of a rapist works."

Chase realized he had stopped shedding tears at some point. It amazed him that discussing the mystery of the attackers stopped his tears instead of increasing them. It did not matter if the theory was exactly right, it was an answer. Almost any answer would do because it led him away from thoughts that he must have done something wrong and caused them to attack him.

Sensing that Chase was through the critical stage of his crisis, Wilson told him, "This is normal, Chase. You're going to have times when it overwhelms you. That's part of healing and accepting any horrible event."

"More importantly, it's temporary." House added. "You won't be exactly the same as you were before, but you won't always feel this much pain either."

__

"How do I go back to work when everyone knows?"

"With your head held high," House answered. "You're going to come out on the other side of this stronger than you were before."

_"Platitudes?"_ Chase wrote.

"Sometimes they fit," House answered sullenly. Ideas only became trite because people had reason to repeat them.

Wilson bit his lower lip to keep from grinning. It was becoming clear to him why House had a fondness for the young man. They were cut from similar cloth. He felt a twang of regret that he had not gotten to know Chase a bit better prior to the attack.

"Thanks," Chase tried to whisper. There was very little sound, but both men could read his lips well enough to know what he meant. _"Sorry about dinner,"_ he wrote.

"You'll have plenty of leftovers for tomorrow," Wilson told him.

_"I'll pay you back. You've spent a lot on food for me,"_ Chase wrote for Wilson. The problem was that he had about twenty dollars in cash in his wallet and he would not have a chance to go to a bank or ATM for a while.

"It's nothing," Wilson said. "Don't worry about it. And I know you appreciate everything, so you don't have to keep writing or trying to say 'Thanks.' That's got to be getting annoying for you."

Chase nodded. He noticed the time. His next round of pills was overdue.

"I'll clean up the kitchen," Wilson volunteered. He patted Chase on the shoulder as he walked away. Chase recoiled from the touch, but Wilson did not notice.

House did. He remembered the clattering spoon and realized it also coincided with someone touching Chase's shoulders. _Foreman_, he thought. He was aware that the only time Foreman had visited Chase was when they snuck the cat into his room. He realized his two fellows were going to have to deal with what had happened if they were ever going to work effectively again. He planned to speak with Foreman the next day. He was out of excuses for avoiding Chase.


	18. Chapter 18

_January 25_

House was unusually prompt to work the next day. He had left Chase asleep in the recliner. He had gotten up about three in the morning to take a vicodin, gone to the kitchen to get some water, and saw that Chase was still awake and watching _Cow and Chicken_ with the sound barely audible. He assumed Chase was using the "Don't sleep; Don't dream" method of coping and that his choice of programs was to avoid anything that might remind him of the attack.

He walked into the office without a word and began preparing himself a cup of coffee. Foreman was hunched over the table, reading a newspaper in rapt attention. His cup of coffee was almost empty, meaning he had been there a while. House wondered if Foreman was getting to work early because he was having trouble sleeping. Neither had bothered to greet the other. _Perfect, _House thought.

He set down his coffee, sure that Foreman was paying him no attention and walked over to him. He put both hands squarely on Foreman's shoulders and pressed down with enough force to be uncomfortable, but not enough to cause any real pain.

Foreman jerked to the side and halfway turned around to face his boss, "What the hell?" he asked, scowling. He wrenched himself from House's grip.

"Just curious," House explained, backing away. "Chase has developed this aversion to anyone touching his shoulders. I wondered if you had the same issues."

"I don't have issues. I just don't need you pushing on me," Foreman snapped. Suddenly his expression changed from a glower to one of understanding. He lowered his eyes and picked up the abandoned newspaper, hoping House did not realize that he knew exactly what was at the root of Chase's aversion.

"Any idea why Chase is so sensitive about that?" House asked. "I mean, the bite marks have probably healed by now."

"He bit him?" Foreman asked quietly, looking over the edge of the paper which he tilted downward. He felt a odd bubbling nausea for a moment. Now he could add biting to the list of things he had been able to deftly ignore. For a second, he found himself back in the clinic, facing the wall, trying to ignore the sounds behind him, but he shook it away immediately.

"Oh, I thought you knew. You were there." House toted his coffee to the table and sat down across from Foreman.

"It's not like I watched," Foreman snipped, still hiding behind the newspaper. He hated the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed him every time he thought of that day. So, he would rather not think of it at all. But he knew the more he said, the more House would pry, so he stopped himself from telling House to back off.

House waited a few minutes. "Where's Cameron?"

"Clinic."

He continued to sit with Foreman. He noticed that every so often the neurologist's wrist would twitch. He had yet to turn the page. House waited. He doubted Foreman could take being stared at for very long.

Finally, in a huff, Foreman slammed the paper down to the table, "What?" His calm exterior was being chipped away as he waited, dreading whatever House had to say.

"Just curious," House answered.

Foreman glared. "About what?"

"Why Tom Cruise has custody of his and Nicole Kidman's kids. And why haven't you visited Chase?"

"I took his cat to see him," Foreman responded. "Remember--you questioned my medical judgment."

"Doesn't count. You had Cameron to protect you from sticky subjects." House added, "Coward," for good measure.

Foreman continued to glare. House was even more annoying when he was right about _him_.

"It seems to me that if I was held hostage with some guy, I'd at least pay him a visit," House pondered aloud.

"No you wouldn't," Foreman accused.

"You're right. I wouldn't. But you're not me. There's a reason you won't go see Chase. It can't be comfortable to thank someone for sacrifice themselves for you, but it really is demanded by etiquette."

Foreman's eyes looked as if they might pop out of his head. It was not as if he were the _only_ reason Chase had to cooperate with the men.

"Granted, Chase was saving the lives of all those people in the clinic who could have been shot, and he did not want to be shot either, but they had no intentions of shooting Chase. I think they probably made that clear. They only had intentions of shooting you and manipulated Chase with that threat. So while you can say he did not do anything for you specifically, you also can't ignore that you are the only person who was specifically threatened."

"I'll send him Hallmark card." Foreman lifted the paper again, anger seething within his chest. He was furious that House was insinuating that Chase had been attacked only to save him. "I'm sure they have something appropriate in the Hostage Situation section."

House took his cane and slowly pushed the paper down from Foreman's hands to the table. "You could make an effort."

"What am I supposed to do? Go watch him sleep? I saw the list of drugs you have him on. I'm sure he's been knocked out ninety percent of the time since the attack."

"Rape." House corrected, throwing a reality check Foreman's way.

Foreman exhaled slowly. The word made that bubbly feeling return to his stomach. "Look, I appreciate that he didn't fight the guys because I'd be dead now if he had. But it is not my fault he was attacked."

"Raped."

"Shut up!" Foreman yelled, increasingly uncomfortable. "I was there. You don't have to tell me what happened."

House was silent, waiting for Foreman to reveal more of what he was thinking. Foreman would not be quiet for long if he thought something needed to be said. He would speak just to break the awkward silence.

"Do you think I wanted them to hurt--"

"Ra--"

"I get it!" Foreman snapped before House could finish the syllable. "Do you think I wanted them to rape him?" He grimaced as the word left his mouth. "That's just… it's not supposed to happen to a guy. He's not even gay."

House started to comment on how bigoted that statement was, but refrained. Foreman was on a roll.

"He doesn't send off signals that he'd be into guys, even if he is prettier than half of the women around here."

"Don't call him that," House snapped.

"It's okay for you to say he's a pretty boy, but not me?" Foreman noted it as another double standard in the world of working for a egomaniac.

"His looks don't have a damn thing to do with it."

"Whatever. That psycho had no reason to think Chase wanted to be with him." He loathed himself for thinking it, but he could not help but wonder if Chase had been less attractive, would those men still have tracked him down? He knew it went against everything psychologist said about rapists. The act was about power, not attraction. But, damn it, he still had those thoughts and those thoughts smade him feel even worse about himself. He was supposed to be more educated, more reasonable than people who believed sexual assualt was about looks. So, why could he not shake away those ill-formed ideas? Why did he resent Chase for having the fair complexion and full lips that made him more effeminate than most men? Those thoughts did not fit the kind of person he was supposed to be.

"So you're saying that since he's not attracted to men, he wasn't asking for it, but it would be easier to swallow if was?"

Foreman glared. Was that supposed to be a pun? Or was it an oddly inappropriate, yet unintended, double entendre in this case? "I don't know what I'm saying," Foreman answered. "I don't think anyone is asking for it, male or female. It just weirds me out that two guys would go after another man, especially when he's straight. It makes it seem worse, somehow." He doubted he would ever forget the desperate pleading in Chase's voice when he told Joe, "I don't know how." Both Joe's grip in Chase's hair and the movements he forced Chase to make had been brutally demeaning. "He saved that bastard's life, so they tracked him down and…" his voice trailed off.

House did not bother to supply the word this time. He waited while Foreman was mulling through his thoughts. "I see you've been very affected by this."

"What do you expect? That I'd just shrug it off and forget it ever happened?" He changed his voice to a singsong, "They didn't hurt _me_, so life is good!" he chirped.

"It might appear to some people that that is your attitude. Pretend it never happened. It'll go away."

"Chase thinks I'm pretending it didn't happen?"

"He hasn't said a word about you."

"Very funny," Foreman snapped, assuming House was just making light of Chase's muteness.

"He hasn't _written_ anything about you either," House clarified. "And, by the way, he's trying to speak again in case you're interested."

"He is? That's great news." Foreman replied. His happiness, though sincere, came across strained. He had wondered all along if Chase's silence was more of a reaction to the threats than the injuries. Foreman had to admit that Chase's silence did give him an excuse for avoiding the other man that he would lament losing. As long as Chase was not talking, the two of them would not have to have a conversation. "So he's getting better, then?"

"Physically," House answered. He did not dare predict the fellow's mental state. If the reaction to the night terror was any indication, his emotional condition was playing catch up with his physical injuries. House supposed that was one problem that came from keeping Chase sedated for days after a severe trauma. He did not get a chance to immediately process what had happened.

"But if he hasn't said anything, why are you reaming me out about not visiting him?"

"I don't want any unresolved issues between the two of you when he comes back to work. This department won't run well if two of you can't stand to look at one another."

"We'll be fine."

"Yes, ignoring the eight hundred pound gorilla will make it go away."

"We'll focus on the cases." It felt odd to Foreman to even discuss the future and Chase coming back to work. In some ways it felt as if time had stopped in this strange limbo where he and Cameron were barely working and House was more interested in Chase than in any patients that came their way. Had it really been two weeks since that day in the clinic?

"What would be in your head if the roles were reversed? What if Chase had restrained you so another man could get his rocks off? Turned his back while you were nearly murdered? Stood there while you were raped?"

Foreman looked crestfallen. He had clung to the hope that House, nor anyone else, would ever find out that he was forced to participate in what the men did to Chase. "It's not like I wanted to help them. I was afraid that they'd shoot Chase if I didn't cooperate with them, you know." He defended himself quickly.

"I'm not looking for excuses or rationalizations. I would have done the same thing as you. But what do you think that Chase has in his mind about you right now?"

"That I don't care," Foreman answered. He wondered what House's real motives for the interrogation were. The man was curious. He did not like being on the sidelines of any situation that involved him. This could simply be a matter of House having to know what was going on with the people who affected him. Otherwise, Foreman was left to wonder if this was an expression of some kind of real concern over the well being of two, or at least one, of his juniors. He questioned at times if anyone other than Cuddy was concerned that he might too have been upset by being held hostage.

"Do you care?" House asked, fully aware that that was a possibility.

"Yes, I care."

"Do you think he has any idea that it matters to you that he was--"

"Don't say it," Foreman asked.

"Hurt." House finished. He pondered how abhorrent people tended to find the word _rape_. It was an ugly, disgusting word that no one wanted to think about. No wonder victims had such a hard time admitting it happened. House was certain that saying it bothered Foreman more than it would have if he had used a racial slur.

"Do you care if I go see him at your place?" Foreman asked tentatively.

"He's not going to be anywhere else for a while."

"Fine, I'll go see him." Foreman said. It was the right answer, but his delivery lacked commitment. In fact he sounded about as enthusiastic as if he were planning to go to a dentist and have all his teeth removed without the benefit of Novocain.

Still, beyond clubbing Foreman and dragging him home, House had done all he could, more than he ever would have thought he might. He reminded himself that it was simply to preserve the working environment. He really hated doing interviews with fellowship applicants and keeping this team in tact was the only way to avoid that. Foreman and Chase would have to work things out on their own.


	19. Chapter 19

_January 29_

Chase found that having a mind free from the effects of pain killers was not necessarily a good thing. The antiretroviral medicines still affected his sleep and he attributed the dreams he was having to them. He considered himself fortunate that neither his nightmarish version of Foreman, nor his attackers, had made another somnolent appearance in the past few days.

He was bored. He was certain that House's apartment was the cleanest it had ever been. He had done the laundry, scrubbed the bathroom including the grout between the tiles, swept and mopped the kitchen, vacuumed the carpet (lifting his self-imposed ban from the rest of the apartment), dusted the knickknacks, and baked a cake from scratch. He had cooked dinner for three of the last four nights, making sure there was enough should Wilson show up for a meal, which happened almost every night now. Chase was sure Wilson was there to help House deal with him should he get emotional again. They all chose to not acknowledge his previous mini-breakdown.

Still, his mind kept wandering to the attack. He could not quite shake vague feelings of distress. He had aches in unusual places. His right wrist often throbbed in pain though nothing had damaged his wrist. Images popped into his mind, no matter what he tried to use as a distraction. He never got further than the strangulation and something about not being able to remember more was eating away at him. _That's insane, isn't it? Why do I want to remember the rest when I know it's all bad? What kind of freak does it make me to want to remember?_

It was a strange battle within him. Just as vehemently as he wanted to remember, he also wanted to avoid memories. He had never before experienced being of two minds to this extent. He decided to try to distract himself by getting online. He checked his bank balance and credit card transaction status. He checked the weather, not that he would be going outside any time soon. He was still forbidden from driving and, if the truth be known, afraid his stalkers were waiting for him to leave the security of his boss's apartment.

He logged onto his hospital e-mail account. He needed to set an automatic response to let professional contacts know that he was on a leave of absence. He perked up when he noticed an e-mail from Cameron.

_Hi Chase,_

_I hope you'll check your e-mail while you're recovering. I just wanted to see how you're feeling. House says you're starting to speak but haven't been able to do more than whisper a bit. Don't worry. That will get better. You know it can take a couple of months for your voice to get back to normal. He says that you're still sleeping a lot and that the ARV's are doing a number on you. I know they suck. I wasn't drowsy as much as I was an insomniac for months. And they made my stomach hurt all the time. I hope you're eating something. You've lost too much weight recently. I'd be glad to come by and bring lunch one day. Let me know a good time and day to visit. I don't know what's up with House and Foreman, but they're shooting daggers at one another all the time. They both seem really angry and I can't get either one of them to tell me why. God, I miss having you around here. You're so peaceful compared to them. So you have to get better soon or I'll go insane. _

_Allison_

Chase smiled. It was nice to hear from her. At first, he thought it odd to read her first name, but then figured she probably did not refer to herself as Cameron. He deliberated over how to address her, then replied:

_Hi Cameron,_

_It's great to hear from you. I'm going crazy here by myself every day. I think House started watching General Hospital while he was recovering from his infarction. I'm thisclose to being addicted to As the World Turns. I would love for you to come by and visit any time you want. If I'm asleep, I'll wake up. I promise. I try to stay busy, but there's only so much one can do stuck in the confines of an apartment. I read, watch TV, cook, and clean. This place is spotless. It seems I'd make a very good wife. Rescue me before I start quilting like my Granny. :-) I'm setting an auto response on this e-mail account; so if you write back, please use my other address. House hasn't mentioned Foreman to me. I don't know what they're arguing about. Sorry you have to put up with them by yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can talk and get used to these medicines. I finish the steroids in a few days and the antibiotics next week. I had no idea how bad ARVs were when you were taking them. You're really a trooper. _

_Rob_

He added his other e-mail address and sent the reply, hoping she would respond. He could use the company, even if it was just virtual.

He checked a news page. There was no headline that caught his attention. He pulled up a search engine and stared at the empty space for a few moments, contemplating if he really wanted to enter his search term. Deciding that he could clear the cache so House would not know what he had searched, he typed in _male rape victim_. He felt guilty, like he was doing something wrong. He supposed he would not have felt any more dirty if he had been looking up pornography on his mother's personal computer, if she had ever had one.

He saw several links about prison situations and was surprised to see that he could buy a term paper on the topic. Neither of those aspects were particularly helpful. Then he saw one that claimed "turning victims into survivors" and as trite as it sounded, he was curious. With brief hesitation, he followed the link.

He was troubled when he saw smiling, happy faces staring back at him. Who were these men and how could they possibly smile if they had really been through this? Were they real victims or just models; and if they were models, why would they pose for this website? Why would anyone want their face associated with this? He wondered how much one had to be paid to pose as Happy Rape Survivor # 14. These men looked _normal_. There was a middle aged man that Chase could imagine in the backyard grilling hamburgers. There was a young Asian man, probably a college student. There was a teenage boy with curly brown hair and traces of acne. _Do they let models have acne? Maybe whoever put the site together could not afford the acne-free model. Maybe they were going for realism._ Only, this could not be real. These men were _smiling_. Chase was certain he would never look into a camera and smile again.

There was an older man, probably in his late sixties. He was someone's grandfather. Chase wondered if this man ever worried that his grandchildren might stumble on this website and question why Grandpa was Happy Rape Survivor #8. He had heard over and over again that the American Social Security system left much to be desired. Maybe Grandpa was living on a tight pension and had to pose to make money. Chase felt bad for Grandpa. His kids ought to help him out financially so he would not have to humiliate himself by appearing on this website. He decided that HRS #7, a forty-something man with a sandy brown hair and a deep tan, was a farmer. From Indiana. He grew corn and had a pet pig. HRS #12 was a Black man whose eyes resembled Foreman's. Chase would like to introduce him to Foreman, thoughh he was not sure why.

He studied the pictures, wondering if these people really had been through the same thing. He saw that some of the men were wearing wedding bands. He pondered how their wives felt about what had happened to them and if they had a hard time with sexual relationships. That question was a bit overwhelming. He realized he was not ready to contemplate the idea of feeling comfortable enough to have sex again and that certainly made him an embarrassment to the brotherhood of men. He did not want anyone to look at him, much less touch him. It suddenly panicked him. _I'm a man, damn it. I don't fear sex_. The problem was, at the moment, he did. How was he going to handle it the next time he was in an intimate relationship? Did he have to tell the girl what had happened to him? Would she have the right to know he was damaged goods? Did he have the right to keep it a secret? Maybe no woman would ever want to be with him again if they knew.

Chase felt his breath starting to become more shallow. He caught himself getting more and more upset and decided to walk away from the computer for a few moments. He did not exit the webpage, but got up and poured himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly and focused on Kacey who was batting the toy sock around on the glistening kitchen floor. He rolled over onto his back and held the sock in his front paws. Chase kneeled down and scratched under the cat's chin. He took the sock and dangled it and Kacey batted it with his paw. Chase threw the toy down the hallway. Kacey went running after it, pounced upon it, and laid there, as if he were daring his master to try to take the toy again. Chase put the glass in the sink and went back to the computer.

There was a frame for navigating the website and Chase saw that this choices included _All About Us, Rape Trauma Syndrome, Adult Survivors of Childhood Abuse, True and False, Recent Victim Assistance, What to Do if You're Contemplating Suicide_, _Community,_ and _Links of Interest_.

He was not sure why he immediately selected the Suicide link. He was not considering it. _Am I? _he questioned himself_. No. I'm not_. He continued reading anyway. He figured it would be good information to have in case he ever did cross that threshold of despair and, at this point, he was not going to rule out any possibilities. _I'm obviously crazy. I don't know what I'll do. But, I had the chance to die and didn't,_ he assured himself.

Next he tried _Recent Victim Assistance_. All that did was tell him to not take a shower, not disturb the scene of the attack, seek medical attention, and report the crime. There was a list of phone numbers for national organizations that offered assistance. He doubted the information was actually beneficial. Realistically, not many people would first check the internet for post-rape protocol. Either the urge to seek medical attention or shower would win out long before it occurred to someone to seek this website or one like it.

_Rape Trauma Syndrome_ was his subsequent choice. He read through the page of information, hoping that it would explain what he was going through. Maybe if what he felt could be defined externally, it would make him feel less isolated. What he read frustrated him. It was a laundry list of "anything goes" reactions. If he closed himself off from the world and refused to talk to anyone, that was normal. If he needed to talk to everyone, that was normal. If he slept all the time--normal. Insomnia--normal. Loss of appetite--normal. Compulsive eating--normal. Insatiable urge for sex to prove his manhood--normal. Repulsion at the idea of sex--normal. Nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, disorientation, depression, anger, powerlessness, denial, general malaise--all normal.

_I have a free pass for insanity_, he thought. _Everyone is different and we all react in different ways,_ he read. It was hardly a proverb. If everyone was so unique, then this inconclusive list of reactions could not have been created. What he saw was a catalogue of common effects: mood disturbance, sleep disturbance, change in appetite, sexual dysfunction, psychosomatic symptoms, and psychological dysfunction. The common thread was the areas affected. The unique experience was derived from where he personally fell within the spectrum. Looking at it logically made him feel more at ease than simply reading a list of extreme behaviors. He did not _want_ a free pass for insanity. On the contrary, he had never craved normalcy as much in his life.

And that itself was a stark revelation to Chase. He had spent much of his childhood wanting to "fit in" with the other kids, wanting to be just like everyone else. He clearly remembered the day one little boy told him, "I don't like you. You use too many big words." Chase had been startled by that reproach and apologized, but the child added, "No one likes you. You're just weird." Chase had felt guilty. He did not realize that he was doing something wrong. He just spoke the way he did at home, the way his parents spoke to him, the way people spoke in the books he read. He had learned to keep his mouth shut or carefully think about what he said so he would not offend his classmates. However, it was not the most pragmatic approach to fitting in with the others. He usually just wound up reading more books with more big words that he had to be careful not to use in front of his peers.

Then he had taken a class on cognition in college. While studying intelligence, Chase had had an epiphany. He was not _normal_. Normal was a person whose IQ fell within fifteen points of the mean of one hundred. He did not know his exact IQ, but his father had made no secret of his son being exceptionally bright. In fact, he had berated Chase for being "too smart" to throw his life away by becoming a priest when he "could do something important and make a difference in the world." In that class, Chase had accepted that he simply was not like most of the kids because he fell outside the statistical norm. It was not arrogance. It was not pride. If anything, it was resignation that he would never "fit in" and a relief to have an answer to one of the "What's wrong with me?" questions that had plagued him his entire life. He had never been good enough: not for his parents, not for the other kids, not for the priests at the seminary, not for God, and not for House. So, for Chase, to crave being normal now even more than he did as a child was revealing testament to just how affected he really was by this situation.

He sighed. Then clicked on the link for _Community_. He was not sure what he was expecting, but something about finding an active message board surprised him. Somehow, he had not anticipated other men to be on this site--to be going through the same thing. He tried to access the General Discussion forum but was greeted with a message saying he must be registered to read or post. He was disappointed at first, but then decided it was probably a good thing. People might feel more free to say what they really felt if they knew that the forum offered some small amount of privacy.

He decided he would register. It did not mean he had to post anything, but he was interested in knowing if there were other people out there like him. Deciding on a username was more of a challenge than he had expected it to be. His usual moniker of rchase was too specific. He thought about it for quite a while, remembering a skit he had seen where they were spoofing Herman Melville writing _Moby Dick_. There were hundreds of sheets of paper crumpled on the floor saying "Call me Jack;" "Call me Charlie;" and a host of other names that had been disregarded before settling on "Ishmael." He tried to register _Ishmael_, only to find that it was already taken. He rolled his eyes. He considered _Aussie MD_, _House Trained_, and _Crikey MD_ and decided against each one. He was not sure he wanted anyone to know he was a doctor in case they had heard of the case of the doctor being assaulted on the news. _This is stupid_, he thought. He had wasted ten minutes trying to name himself. He tried _rc83_ for his initials and birthday. It was simple, boring, did not identify him, and most importantly, not taken.

Once he was allowed access to the forums, he read some of the personal stories other men had posted. Even though he had been through it himself, he found what others had endured shocking and abhorrent. One teenager had come out to his school and was attacked in the locker room for being gay. The school authorities had offered no support. One man had been drugged at a bar and woke up to realize what had happened. He had no solid memories, but it was haunting him anyway. He read several more entries, feeling sick to his stomach. There was a pattern after each new personal story was posted--other men would comment about how they welcomed New Guy to the boards and that New Guy was doing the right thing and that things would get better. People offered empathy and validation. Chase imagined it might actually be a little bit comforting to have people reply. But he was not sure he was really ready to post his own story.

He perused the forums and found people talking about sexual issues, spiritual issues, and whether to tell loved ones or not. He spent a long time reading, taking things to heart. He was startled by a knock on the door. He nearly jumped from his chair, feeling like he had been caught doing something wrong. He quickly exited the webpage and selected "shut down" so the computer would turn off.

Realizing he had spent at least two hours reading information from that website, he thought that Cameron may have gotten his e-mail and decided to rush over to bring lunch. That sounded like something she would do. He wished he had on better clothes than baggy flannel pajamas. He alternated between them and the sweat suit because both were warm and comfortable. If he had known she was coming, he would at least have put on his blue jeans. He walked to the door and peered through the peephole. It was not Cameron's smiling face that he saw through the glass. It was Foreman.

_AN: Ready to kill me yet? LOL I promise Foreman and Chase talk in the next chapter._


	20. Chapter 20

Chase was shocked to see Foreman through the glass in the door. His heart felt as if it had stopped beating for a moment. He reminded himself that the last time Foreman had shown up at the door had only been a nightmare. So, why was he panicked at the idea of letting the man inside the apartment?

He contemplated pretending to be asleep so Foreman would go away.

"Chase!" Foreman yelled. "Chase, are you awake? Open up!" He banged on the door several more times.

Chase inhaled deeply to calm his nerves. He grabbed his cell phone from the counter where it had been charging. His pajama bottoms had no pocket. He considered putting the phone against his stomach and letting the waistband of his pants hold it there, but realized that would hardly work since his pants were quite loose thanks to the weight he had lost. The phone would likely slide down his leg and to the floor which would create a potentially embarrassing situation.

_It's just Foreman. I won't have to call 911_, Chase told himself. He felt ashamed that he would allow himself to let a dream make him fear Foreman this way. He was supposed to have a better grasp of reality than that. He took one more steadying breath and opened the door.

"Did I wake you?" Foreman asked.

Chase shook his head. This was worse than if Cameron had caught him in his pajamas in the afternoon. She would have been sympathetic. Foreman was always judgmental and would just think he was lazy.

"Can I come in?"

Chase's eyes widened for just a second as he realized he was still standing there with the door wide open and he quickly nodded and stepped aside to let the other man walk past him. He noted that _this_ Foreman was not wearing a lab coat.

Chase followed Foreman to the couch where he took a seat. Instead of sitting, Chase held up his hand to signal that he would be right back. He went to the kitchen and cut a piece of the cake he had made and poured Foreman a glass of iced tea. He brought them both and set them on the coffee table in front of his guest.

"Um, thanks," Foreman replied, a little taken aback by the gesture.

Chase sat on the opposite end of the couch and waited for Foreman to say why he was visiting.

"So, how are you doing?" Foreman asked. He took the saucer into his hand and tried the cake.

"Okay," Chase responded in a breathy whisper. He hated the way his voice sounded soft and weak.

"House said you were trying to talk again. That's good news." He took another bite of the cake. "This is delicious. Did you make it?"

Chase nodded. "Bored," he said, followed by a small cough.

"You can write things down if it's easier," Foreman offered. He felt a stab of guilt hearing Chase's voice. It only served to remind him that he had not even realized Chase was being strangled.

Chase had a notepad and pen on the end table just in case he needed to write. He had been trying to exercise his voice a little by talking to House and Wilson each night. In addition to the physical damage to his throat, his prolonged silence had left his vocal chords very weak.

"So, you're probably wondering why I'm here," Foreman started. _I certainly am_, he thought. Despite his promise to House, he had made no effort to go see Chase for a few days. He assuaged himself that he had never specified _when_ he would make the visit.

Chase looked at him expectantly. He was certain he would take his cues from whatever Foreman had to say. Despite the questions he had, he still felt he had no right to ask those questions.

"I," Foreman paused. "I'm sorry this happened," he said emphatically. "I knew Joe, whatever his name is, wasn't playing with a full deck and when they asked for you, I was annoyed. But I called you because I didn't want to deal with them. I would have gladly called you in and left."

Chase said nothing and made no attempt to write a response.

"But I didn't know they intended to hurt you. I had no idea."

"I know," Chase whispered.

"They pulled a gun on us, and you tried to get them to let me go. And do you want to know what I was thinking? I hoped that they'd let me go. Not because I thought about going to get help, but because I didn't want to be hurt. Then I hoped that you'd do whatever they said so I wouldn't get hurt. I hoped that you'd be loyal to me even though you didn't have any reason to be. It didn't even occur to me to worry about _what_ they might be planning to do to you. I only thought about myself."

Chase looked down, not sure why Foreman was telling him all of this. He really could live without the knowledge that Foreman had truly not cared what they did to him, even if it answered why the other man had not even said so much as, "Stop trying to kill him."

"The thing is, I _didn't_ know what they wanted from you. I mean, they were holding us at gunpoint and he was looking at you like he'd hit the jackpot, but it didn't cross my mind that they were going to…" he paused. He could not say it. "That they were going to hurt you so badly." He shook his head. That made it sound like it would have been okay with him if they had hurt Chase just a little bit. "This isn't coming out right," Foreman sighed, frustrated. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I'm sorry that I was so selfish. I'm sorry that I didn't consider your wellbeing ahead of my own like you did for me. I'm sorry," he looked away. "I'm sorry I helped them!"

Chase looked up and saw that Foreman's eyes looked unusually bright. "You… didn't have… a choice" he said delicately, having to pause every few seconds.

"I thought about jumping on the other guy, but I was afraid that he'd shoot _both_ of us, _not just me_. I imagined him putting the gun to your head and pulling the trigger if I made some stupid heroic move. I'm not a hero, Chase. I'm a coward."

"They had… a gun," Chase reminded him. Deciding it was too much to try to say, he wrote, "_It's not your fault. They were going to find me no matter what doctor they saw in the clinic. No one expects you to be a hero."_

Foreman practically growled and stood up, "This isn't right!" he raised his voice. "You're not supposed to be consoling me!" For some reason it angered him that Chase was the one who had been hurt while he was used as a bargaining chip; Chase--who could not even speak--was the first to ask how the other was doing in the aftermath; Chase had time to make freshly brewed iced tea and bake a cake; Chase was comforting him when he had come to make sure Chase was doing well.

That was a lie. He had come because House was making him miserable and this was the only way to get House off his back.

Chase closed his eyes and backed away, drawing his legs up to his chest. "I'm sorry!" he whispered. He remembered a man's voice telling him, "You're not playing right." His chest felt heavy and he had a sense of foreboding. His eyes had started stinging and he was afraid he was going to burst into tears even though it was the last thing he wanted to do in front of Foreman.

Foreman turned around and saw Chase curled into a ball. He knew the younger man was trying to shield himself--from him. It stung Foreman to know that Chase was genuinely afraid that he might injure him. Chastising himself for being an idiot and showing anger around a person with post traumatic stress disorder, he kneeled on the floor by Chase to try to get his attention. "I'm sorry." He hoped that his non-threatening stance would put Chase at ease.

He recognized that he had to stop thinking of Chase as a fellow doctor and start thinking of him as a patient. There was a reason he had been given several weeks of medical leave. He was not simply taking a vacation with the destination of choice as House's apartment. He had suffered severe physical and psychological damage and was far from being healed. Foreman realized he would rather be working than stuck inside recovering and he wondered how he could have let himself get so angry.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell," Foreman said softly. It never occurred to him that his recent bursts of anger might be linked to his own PTSD, which he denied having. Nothing had happened to him, after all. He had seen a psychiatrist once at Cuddy's demand and never returned for his follow-up appointment. He knew Chase had not even seen a psychiatrist yet because he was not physically ready for therapy.

Chase was trembling, fighting the emotions that were threatening to overpower him. If Foreman would just leave, everything would be okay. He tried to calm himself down. He fought the memories that were trying to seep through to his consciousness.

"Chase, please," Foreman put both hands on Chase's arms to attempt to calm him, to show him that he meant no harm. His touch was met with a flinch. "I'm sorry," he repeated pleadingly. "Please open your eyes."

Chase felt Foreman's hands on his arms and suddenly got an image in his mind of the top of Foreman's head as the other man was dressing him. He felt those same hands as they pulled his clothes back into place after… after… he could not let himself think it. He felt a rush of agonizing phantom pains. He shook his head fiercely, trying to make those memories vanish. Had he really wanted to remember this? He was overwhelmed with shame. Foreman had seen him naked and vulnerable and had _dressed him _because he had been incapable of helping himself. He shimmied away from Foreman, knowing he had to get away. He tried to get off the couch, but instead of standing, fell sideways on his knees to the floor beside the other man.

Foreman was too surprised by the sudden movement to do anything to stop Chase or to keep him from hitting the floor with a loud smack. He barely had time to process that Chase had fallen by the time he jumped to his feet and ran away. Foreman followed behind and found Chase on his knees, leaning over the toilet, vomiting. His face was flushed and tears were streaming from his eyes. His breathing was painfully mixed with heaving nausea and sobbing.

_God help me_, Foreman thought. Chase was about to start hyperventilating which, combined with vomiting, could cause aspiration which would cause pneumonia in an already immunocompromised individual. His chances of aspiration were still higher than normal due to the damage his throat had suffered.

Foreman saw a folded stack of hand towels and grabbed one and ran cold water over it. He wrung it out and then approached Chase who was hugging the toilet bowl for support. He kneeled down and gently pressed the cool cloth to Chase's forehead. House had obviously been wrong. Chase did not need him to visit. In fact, he was much more fragile than House had implied. Foreman supposed House might not be aware of how tenuous Chase's balance was.

Chase's body shook. He held onto the toilet for fear of losing his grip on everything else: his sanity, his life. Then Foreman was holding that cool, wet cloth to his forehead and he could not withstand the human contact. He wailed and backed away from the other man, pinning himself against the tile wall of the bathroom. It was cold and smooth, just like the floor in the clinic. He was in a very dark place in his mind, unable to distinguish the present from the recent past. He was weak, so weak he was barely breathing. A heavy weight was pressing against him, into him, suffocating and possessing him at the same time. He tried to move away from the beast that was ripping him apart only to be roughly reminded how insubstantial his efforts were. There was no escape.

Foreman watched Chase move away from him, horrified by the knowledge that whatever was going on in Chase's mind revolved around the attack and that whatever it was had been instigated by his stupid outburst of misplaced anger. "Chase, please, look at me. You're safe."

Chase's eyes remained closed. He could almost hear the stranger's guttural sounds as he climaxed and he could almost smell the salty sweat on his flesh. He felt hot breath at his ear, then lips and teeth and a sticky tongue sliding against his neck. He tried to brush away the sensations, then pulled his knees tightly to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and wept convulsively.

Foreman was unsure of what to do. He took out his cell phone to call House or Cameron for help. As he started to dial, he glanced back at Chase and realized that if their positions were reversed, he would not want anyone to call in help. He would not want anyone, not even one person, much less two or three to see him in this kind of state. Realizing that it was only a twist of fate that separated his experience from Chase's, he put his cell phone back in his pocket. It was merely a turn of fortune that it was Chase and not he who had been assaulted. It could just as easily have been him who was huddled on the bathroom floor, essentially alone and grieving.

"Chase, please," Foreman reached out to the younger man, but Chase recoiled from the light touch.

Chase knew the person with him was not the person who hurt him, but he could not bear to be touched. He was overwhelmed with memories of the vulnerability, violation, and the horrifying brush with death. He remembered what he was thinking while he was being raped. He told himself it was not really happening. He told himself that he had to survive or Kacey would starve to death. _His cat. _His life hung in the vicious hands of a sociopath and he thought of his cat. Then it seemed like all the thoughts in his head slowed and stopped. Instead of having two or three or four different things going on in his mind at once, he had willed his mind to stop. If he was not thinking, then it was not real. There was nothing--nothing except God who was everywhere, particularly in his own mind. It was not a thought so much as an echo. Now he recalled the first verses of James and told himself that this was all a test. He also reminded himself that he had failed tests in his past. He doubted he could pass this one if it were another trial thrown into his path.

Foreman, unsure of what else he could do without further upsetting Chase, decided the best thing was to just be there. If he reached out and touched him, Chase would probably become more agitated. He could speak, but it was as if Chase did not even hear him. He knew Chase was lost somewhere in a memory and the only thing to do was wait it out. He considered finding his supply of medication, suspecting there was at least one tranquilizer among the prescriptions, but decided against that. If this was the only way Chase could deal with some aspect of the ordeal he had suffered, tranquilizing him would only serve to put off the inevitable. Foreman supposed that that might be the right thing to do--let Chase work this out with a therapist. But he also realized that Chase might be alone the next time something triggered what he concluded was a vivid flashback.

So, Foreman joined him, sitting on the bathroom floor, his back to the opposite wall. His legs were stretched out in front of him so that his feet were near Chase's feet, but not making contact. He was close, but not too close. It was not an especially large bathroom. The perspective from the floor made Foreman feel as if he were in some kind of box. He was quiet and he watched carefully for any indication that Chase might be coming out of his reverie or any sign that he might hurt himself. He waited.

_It hurts_, Chase thought. _Everything hurts_. He blamed himself for these memories. He should not have sought solace on that message board. He brought all the memories to the surface by reading about other people's experiences. He had done this to himself. He had foolishly thought that remembering what had happened would somehow help him get control over it. What a folly that was! He had never felt less in control in his life.

Foreman noticed Kacey standing at the entrance to the bathroom. He hoped the cat would not be frightened by him. He wanted it to come inside because Chase had responded so well to him in the hospital. _I'm pathetic. A cat makes a better friend than I do._ He looked back at Chase who was still crying, albeit more quietly, since he had probably fatigued himself. Did he even consider Chase a friend? They were coworkers, sure. They were teammates and, combined with House and Cameron, they made a very good team. But, a _friend_?

He considered their relationship while he watched the younger man. If someone asked him to name his three best friends, could he even do it? He had purposefully lost touch with the guys from his old neighborhood. He had never formed many close relationships in college because he was entirely focused on his education and proving himself. He had flings, but not relationships. He had acquaintances, but not friends.

Chase had been welcoming enough when he had joined House's team. He had offered to show Foreman around the hospital. He had told him about the eccentricities of staff members. He had warned him about all things House, but also raved about the brilliance of the man who was their mentor. Chase had made an effort, but he had decided from the start that he did not like the intensivist for many reasons. He was the son of a famous doctor. That was probably how he had managed to get into and graduate from medical school and do his specialty training and get a prestigious internship all by the age of twenty-six. This obnoxious brat was seven years younger than he was and already ahead in his career. The rich white path had been paved for him. He was a stupid _kid_ and his exuberance about the job and his sycophantic appreciation of House irked Foreman. This position was not intended to be enjoyed. Working under the supervision of Dr. Gregory House was something that would look good on a resume. It was a medical medal of honor. From the moment he met him, Foreman was sure that the young man had never had to struggle for anything in his life. He assumed the elder Dr. Chase had made a nice endowment to get his son a prominent position.

Looking back, he realized how wrong he had been. Having met Rowan Chase, he doubted the man had ever done any real favors at all for his son. The two had a strained relationship at best. Chase had probably sailed through medical school and come the States to escape, though Foreman had no idea why Chase felt the need to run halfway around the world. Running away from home was something he realized they had in common. The more he worked with the younger Chase, the more he realized that the "stupid kid" would one day be a brilliant diagnostician. It was likely that he had gotten through medical school and his training young because he was intelligent enough that the academic part came easily to him. Did that make him a less competent doctor? Hard work had not helped Foreman save more people than Chase saved; it had not helped him think of more innovative diagnostic or treatment techniques than Chase conceived. Proving himself had only made him arrogant--so arrogant that he accepted his first judgment of a person as fact instead of recognizing it preconception.

It appeared Kacey had decided Foreman was harmless. He slinked into the bathroom and approached his master.

Foreman watched as the cat stopped beside Chase. He would have sworn the cat was actually sizing up the situation and concocting a plan. He waited expectantly. As it turned out cat-plans were fairly simple. Kacey approached Chase and butted his head against Chase's elbow. He then put both front paws on Chase's knee and stood, leaning against his master for support.

Chase had cried himself to the point of exhaustion. The memories had overwhelmed him physically and emotionally. He had slowly realized he was sitting on the floor in House's bathroom, while Foreman sat quietly beside him. He had spent a few minutes trying to think of a way to get them out of this ridiculous situation without having to discuss what he had remembered and without making Foreman angry again. He peaked at Kacey. The cat was perched against his leg with tail slowly flicking from side to side.

Kacey put both front feet back onto the floor and then rubbed himself against Chase's legs. Chase reached out scratched under the cat's chin.

Foreman noticed that the cat had gotten Chase's attention away from whatever else was going through his mind. "You okay?" he asked. He twisted his torso one way and then the other, trying to work the stiffness out of his back.

Chase nodded, keeping his eyes on his pet. He remembered thinking that he had to live so his cat would not die. "Well, I survived," he whispered, focused on the orange and white face. His life had purpose: feeding a cat.

Hoping that Chase would no longer feel threatened by him, Foreman moved a little closer. "Want to talk about it?" he offered. "I want to listen." And he actually meant it.

Chase shook his head as if to say no, but answered, "I remember." His voice remained barely perceptible.

A look of dawning crossed Foreman's features. "You had repressed it?" He was sure he would repress such memories too.

Chase nodded, still not making eye contact.

"I set it off, didn't I? The flashback." He asked, guiltily. He shook his head slightly, inwardly berating himself for his anger and aggression.

Chase shrugged, letting his legs relax. Kacey had started purring and took the movement as an invitation to get into his master's lap.

"I really did not mean to get angry. I'm very sorry."

Chase shrugged again. He hugged Kacey close to his chest.

Foreman watched. Kacey was such a docile creature that he allowed Chase to hold him much like a child would hold a teddy bear. The contact only seemed to make him purr more loudly. The animal thrived on affection.

"Let's go sit down," Foreman suggested. He stood up, then reached his hand out to Chase.

Chase looked up at him skeptically. He saw no malice or anger in Foreman's expression. He let go of the cat and took Foreman's hand, allowing the other man to help him get to his feet. Once he was standing, he let go of Foreman's hand. He glanced at the cat waiting by his feet. Softly, he said, "I survived."

_AN: I really hope you enjoyed this. I got the feeling from comments that expectations for this chapter were very high. I hope I did not disappoint. New comments are always appreciated!!!_


	21. Chapter 21

Chase stopped to brush his teeth before following Foreman back to the living room. He lingered long enough to allow Foreman to leave unnoticed if he wanted. He was certain that Foreman would rather be anywhere but there. He would.

Instead of leaving, Chase found that Foreman had made him a cup of warm tea. Foreman obviously had fewer qualms about going through House's kitchen shelves than he did.

"It'll settle your stomach," Foreman explained, handing him the tea. That he had sweetened it with honey and added lemon suggested that he also planned for the tea to help soothe Chase's throat and make it easier for him to talk.

Chase accepted the tea and focused on drinking it. It was too strong and the lemon was overpowering, but he drank it anyway. It was as good of an excuse to avoid eye contact as anything else. He was embarrassed that Foreman had seen him overwhelmed by the memories. Foreman, who had no respect for him, had been privy to some of the worst moments in his life. Chase was sure there was something cosmically unfair about that, but he did not have the energy to even be bitter or question it.

Had someone looked in on the two doctors, they might think they were engrossed in a television program. They were sitting on each end of the couch, neither looking at the other.

"You don't have to stay," Chase told Foreman.

"No, I want to stay," Foreman offered, attempting to sound sincere. He had, after all, just told Chase he wanted to listen if he needed to talk. He had reconsidered somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen. The truth was he felt obligated to stay, but he was certain that it would be unbearable for him if Chase needed to retell the graphic details of his experience.

Foreman had momentarily thought of drugging the tea as he stirred in the honey. He was no expert in psychiatric issues, but he did know that a flashback like that could lead to a person making some irrational decisions. He had never witnessed such a deeply involved traumatic memory in someone who was not institutionalized at the time. In fact, he had only seen one person go through something similar and it had boggled his mind then, as it did now, that anyone could become so completely absorbed in memories. He supposed that most people were probably alone when they went through something like this. Most probably did not seek professional help but had it thrust upon them. The young woman he had seen had been hospitalized due to several suicide attempts. He suspected that Chase should be back at PPTH on suicide watch, just to be safe.

"You're lying," Chase accused, suspecting the other man's sense of obligation.

Foreman shrugged. It was still disconcerting to him to hear Chase speak in that labored voice. "You don't need to be alone, even if _you_ don't want me to stay." He put the desire to escape one another's company back on Chase.

"I do fine alone every day," Chase replied. He knew was straining his voice more than he should, but he added. "I was fine today until you showed up." His words held much less of an impact than he aspired for them to impart. Sarcasm was all in the delivery and his delivery was weak. He thought of the website he had been reading earlier and wished Foreman would leave so he could log back onto it. Maybe one of the users there could tell him he was not crazy.

Foreman held his tongue. He did not want a repeat of the anger induced flashback. He wanted to ask if Chase blamed him for the stroll down memory lane. Though, he blamed himself and that was probably enough for him to know. "I'm not leaving," he stated.

Chase shrugged. "Whatever."

They skillfully avoided looking at each other.

"I'm sorry I got mad earlier. I didn't mean to take it out on you." It pained Foreman to make another apology. But apologizing was less bothersome to him than the silence. As far as he was concerned, he had not done anything wrong either. Okay, maybe he had been selfish by ignoring what was happening to Chase. And maybe he was a jerk to feel jealous that Chase got sympathy and no one really cared that he had been held hostage too. But he figured that was akin to two people coming into the emergency room, one with a gunshot wound and the other with a cold. Massive injury trumps minor problem. He wanted someone to realize that being held hostage was not really minor in and of itself. It simply paled in comparison to what Chase had been through while he also was held at gunpoint.

There was a part of Chase that wanted to tell Foreman that he had no right to be angry at him. He had not done anything to Foreman but try to keep him safe. He wanted to yell at the other man and tell him to go away and stop pretending to care. He had so many emotions and memories battling for his attention that mollifying Foreman's guilt ridden conscience was just a little too much to ask of him at this point. He did not blame Foreman, but it was clear that Foreman felt some burden of responsibility. And it seemed that he resented Chase for that.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Foreman asked hesitantly.

_Do you have permanent brain damage? _Chase asked silently. He shook his head. He was not sure why anyone would think that "talking about it" would help. Now that he remembered what had happened, he wanted to promptly forget again. Each word he said to another person about his experience was a weapon that could be used against him later. There was no one he trusted with those weapons.

Foreman frowned when Chase did not respond to him. He noticed the younger man's foot was bouncing against the floor and he chalked that up to nerves. "If you do talk to me, I won't tell anyone what you said," he promised. "It's no one else's business."

"It's not your business either," Chase snapped. He had no intention whatsoever of sharing his thoughts with Foreman.

"Fine," Foreman answered, trying to keep his irritation at bay. "We'll just sit here and stare at the wall."

Chase shrugged as if to say, _Fine with me. _

"You're acting a like a two-year old," Foreman muttered, not quite able to keep his mouth shut.

"Go to hell," Chase responded.

"It's not my fault!" Foreman exclaimed.

"I never said it was," Chase retorted, wishing his voice was stronger. "You're the one making this all about you." He set his cup of tea down on the coffee table.

"How the--" He did not have to finish asking how he was making it about him.

Chase cut him off, knowing exactly what the question was. "You came in here under the guise of checking on me just so you can have me say it's not your fault. Fine. _It's not your fault. _You did not hold a gun to your own head. But you did not do a damn thing to try to stop them either. You _are_ a bloody coward. I'm not mad because you didn't try to stop them. I know you couldn't. I'm mad because you want me to make you feel better and I'm too damn tired to do it." His voice faltered, but Foreman was engrossed enough with what he said that the altering tone and volume did not prevent the message from coming through.

"I don't--" Foreman stopped himself. He did not what? Want absolution? But he did. Chase was right. He had come there wanting Chase to tell him everything was fine.

"If it mattered to you, you would have shown up by now. Not because Cameron dragged you or House pressured you. You don't want to be here. You want to pretend it never happened and that's fine. I _want_ you to pretend it never happened so I don't have to look at you and wonder if you think about me choking on him when you see me. You can pretend it didn't happen and I can pretend that you weren't there with your back turned while he strangled me and…" He hesitated.

"Raped you," Foreman supplied, using House's logic that ignoring what it was would not change it.

"Shut up! Don't ever say that again! You weren't there and you don't know anything."

"Chase?" Foreman questioned. Chase had instantly moved from the idea of pretending that he had not been in that room to proclaiming it as fact. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Yes it does. You weren't there. As far as you're concerned nothing happened. You don't have to feel guilty and I don't have to--" he stopped, realizing he was saying too much.

"You don't have to what?" He wondered if Chase's voice had given out again.

Chase shook his head, refusing to finish the thought aloud. He was going to say he did not have to be ashamed. "You can pretend I've gone to Australia for a month. I'll tell you about snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef when I get back," he whispered.

Foreman was dumbfounded. Did Chase really think that there was any logic in what he was saying? Did he think the best course of action was to ignore reality?

"I'll come back to work and you'll be pissy because I was on an expensive vacation and I'll tell you it was nice because you'll ask, just because you don't have anything else to say. But I won't say too much because I won't want to offend you."

"Offend me?" Foreman asked, so confused by Chase's thoughts that the only thing he knew to do was try to play along.

"Because you didn't have a rich famous father," Chase answered, turning to face Foreman for the first time. "You're lucky. Your dad is really nice and he's proud of you."

Foreman opened his mouth, but closed it again. He had no idea what to say. It struck him that Chase always referred to his father as the one who was rich.

"It's okay," Chase told him. "It's not a competition. And if it was, you'd win."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Foreman told him honestly. He was still lost on the idea of being "pissy" about the imaginary vacation. It stunned him that Chase was conscientious about offending him over an imaginary vacation and he wondered if Chase was as sensitive about real life and censored himself for his benefit.

"Your dad," Chase answered, as if he believed that would clarify his meaning.

Foreman rubbed his forehead, trying to decipher what Chase was saying.

"Your dad loves you." Chase added.

"I know," Foreman answered.

"You're lucky." He repeated, turning away and focusing his attention back on the wall across the room.

"I know," Foreman repeated. He was not thinking as much about who had the superior parent as the fact that he was not rambling about competitions and the Great Barrier Reef. _He needs counseling,_ Foreman determined, glad that he had not left earlier.

"He'd be more disgusted than you are," Chase whispered.

"Who?" Foreman asked, still trying to go along with whatever Chase said. He had been right about one thing--rational thought did not follow a flashback.

"My father."

"Would be disgusted?"

Chase nodded. "If he knew."

"Knew what?"

"What they did. What they made me do. He would hate me."

"Made you," Foreman reminded him. "You didn't have a choice. Your father would not hate you for that. And, for the record, I'm not disgusted with you either." Foreman considered how his own father might react if he were in Chase's situation. Embarrassed by the idea of his conservative father even considering the idea of one man sexually assaulting another man, he felt more sympathetic about the shame that Chase must be enduring.

Chase frowned with a tired, _Hmph_. "Any excuse would do."

"Excuse for what?"

"To hate me."

"He wouldn't have paid for your college if hated you," Foreman argued, vowing that he would not be "pissy" about it.

"He didn't."

Foreman was visibly shocked. "He didn't?"

"I aced the UMAT and GAMSAT and had scholarships and got student loans. I didn't want his money."

"You aced the UMAT?" Foreman asked, impressed. He had heard of the test and how many claimed it was unfair because it was more a test of logical and nonverbal reasoning than academic skills. He hoped that he could bring Chase back to a more coherent train of thought. "I've heard it's really hard."

"So they say," Chase shrugged.

"Why didn't you ever say you had student loans when I assumed your father paid for your education."

"You'd already made up your mind." Chase answered. It was part of being the son of Rowan Chase. People in the medical community had certain assumptions.

Foreman nodded. Good or bad, it was the truth. He tended to stick to his first impressions.

"You're not disgusted?" Chase asked meekly.

"No! Of course not!" Foreman asserted. It was a lie. But keeping the truth to himself was the only kind thing he could do. The sight of the attacker's rough hands tangled in Chase's hair was never far from his mind when he was with Chase. He _was_ disgusted by that memory, but it had nothing to do with Chase himself. He was repulsed by what had been done to his colleague and by being forced to play a part in it. He promised himself that he would never let Chase know that truth. With time, things would change.

"Even though--"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Foreman answered, not allowing Chase to finish his sentence because he did not want him to focus on the bad things when he was just starting to make sense again.

Chase ventured to make eye contact. He studied Foreman's face for a moment--the concern and sincerity in his eyes. It was rare to find them there.

"I'm not disgusted," Foreman repeated. He thought of adding that he was a little disgusted with himself, but that would only serve to demonstrate that he really was making this all about him.

"I'm so fucked up," Chase announced.

Foreman was surprised by the self-assessment. He could see torment clearly in the blue eyes that were boring a hole into him. "Yeah," he agreed. He was not being cruel, but honest. He thought it was a good sign that Chase realized that he was not quite in touch with reality. Crazy people did not think they were crazy, after all. "You'll get better though."

They both turned to the door when they heard a noise outside. In a moment, House was standing in the doorway. "When did I start running a shelter for wayward employees?" he asked, tossing his mail on the coffee table. He nodded to Foreman and turned to Chase, "So what's for dinner? I'm starving."

_AN: Sorry it took so long to update. This was one of those chapters where I weighed every word. I hope it was worth the wait. Question: About reviews: do you want a response if you review or do you find responses annoying? _


	22. Chapter 22

_January 30_

"Do you think it's wise to leave Chase at home alone every day?" Foreman confronted House the next day at the office. He had left the apartment soon after House arrived. Though he wanted to tell his boss about what had happened, he did not want to discuss Chase in front of Chase.

"The phrasing of your question tells me that you think it is not," House replied, leaning back in his chair.

Foreman recognized the argumentative tone in House's voice. "Did he tell you what happened yesterday?"

House leaned forward, his attention captured. "No. What happened other than you finally went to see him?"

"That's another thing--you were wrong." Foreman was reminded that he wanted to tell House just how wrong he had been about the need for him to visit Chase. "He did not need to see me. The _last_ thing he needed, apparently, was to see me."

"Why?" House asked, irritated that Foreman was creating a dramatic build-up.

Foreman hesitated.

"Just spit it out, damn it. What happened?" House demanded. Chase had been withdrawn the night before and House had noticed his bloodshot eyes. He knew that Chase had been upset, but did not press to find out why. Wilson had had a late board meeting so he was not coming over after work. House did not want to deal with a weepy Chase on his own. They had wound up ordering Chinese food which Chase barely touched. Chase had taken his medication and gone to sleep early. He had been asleep when House had left that morning and House did not bother to wake him, assuming that he had probably been awake half the night like he usually was.

Foreman had practiced what he would say countless times in his mind. He had doubted that Chase would volunteer any information to House and he wanted to deliver the message as succinctly as possible. "Seeing me triggered an onslaught of repressed memories."

House exhaled slowly and made the ball on his desk spin around like a top. He hated the word _repressed_. "Repressed memories of what?"

Foreman tilted his head and looked at House condescendingly. "The attack," he drew out his words into a slow answer to convey what he thought was the stupidity of the question.

"Hey, you said _repressed_. For all I know, there could have been childhood issues rearing their ugly head," House shrugged.

"He has childhood issues?" Foreman asked. "What kind of childhood issues?" He felt his stomach twist.

House scowled. "How the hell would I know? It's been speculated that new trauma can cause a person to recall previous trauma. At least people who believe in repressed memories in the first place believe that. Some of them do, anyway."

"So you think that he had past trauma too?" Foreman asked. House would not have suggested it if he did not think it was possible.He was surprised that House would bring up ideas from psychological research.

"I. Don't. Know," House said emphatically. He knew very little about Chase's past, but the alcoholic mother gave him cause for concern. He left that subject by the wayside. "It's good that he remembered. It means the memory loss was an emotional response, not a neurological problem." It also told him that Chase had not lied to the police when he had made his statement.

Foreman could understand House's logic. He had mentioned concerns over Chase's short and long term memory. It was a comfort to credit PTSD with those symptoms. Physical brain damage from blunt trauma and lack of oxygen could have caused more long term damage which would be more likely to affect Chase's job and ability to care for patients.

"Did he tell you what he remembered?"

"No, not really. He just said he remembered. I think the attempted murder was a large part of it because he said he survived."

"He didn't _just_ say he remembered. Tell me what really happened." House also knew that Chase remembered the attempted murder fairly well based on his statement to the police, so he doubted that had been the primary content of the flashback.

"I yelled at him," Foreman admitted shamefully.

"Why?"

"No good reason. I couldn't get what I wanted to say to come across without sounding like--"

"An asshole," House interrupted.

"Pretty much," Foreman nodded. "So I wound up yelling at him. He--I think he thought I was going to hurt him. He ran to the bathroom, threw up, and then sat on the bathroom floor crying his eyes out for at least twenty minutes. It looked kind of like he was trying to push someone away, so I think he was kind of reliving what happened. He wasn't quite _all there_, if you know what I mean."

"So how did the two of you wind up back on my couch talking like reasonable human beings?"

Foreman shrugged. "The cat came along and Chase responded to it. It was like the cat brought him back to where he really was."

House was looking at him incredulously so he continued. "I tried to tell him he was safe. He wouldn't listen to me. I was afraid if I touched him, he'd freak out even more. So I just sat with him until he calmed down."

"But he listened to the cat." House supplied.

"Yeah," Foreman answered, trying to not show his annoyance with his boss. "See why I'm concerned?"

"You suck." House told him.

"So he likes his cat more than me. Does that come as a surprise?"

"It's no contest," House answered. "It doesn't come as a surprise that the cat is a better therapist either."

Foreman sighed. He did not deserve this abuse. He was only speaking up to try to help, not to invite criticism. "Maybe Chase should start seeing a therapist who doesn't have orange fur or get high on catnip filled socks."

"He hasn't been well enough for therapy."

"He is now," Foreman asserted. He agreed that therapy would have been a waste of time when Chase could not speak and was knocked out on pain medication, but he was off the pain medicine and speaking again now, so therapy should be started immediately. "I actually think he should be hospitalized again." He gave this opinion with more hesitation.

"For?"

"Suicide watch."

House shook his head. "He's not suicidal."

"You didn't see him yesterday."

"I have an idea," House replied, remembering the day he came home to find Chase lost in a nightmare. "He's remembered now. There's nothing left to torment him."

"Just the memories themselves," Foreman suggested. Given how his own memories haunted him, he could only speculate how much more devastating Chase's memories were. "All I'm saying is the only other person I've seen go through something like that was in the psych ward because she tried to kill herself."

"So you think putting Chase in a padded room will cure him? He has to have time to process what happened." House thought of Chase asking for more time for his physical injuries to heal. He had been adamant that he needed time, not tests. House fully believed the need for time applied to his emotional injuries as well.

"I think it might keep him alive," Foreman proposed.

"Then talk him into it," House said, doubting that Foreman's concerns about Chase's mental state were enough to make him actually do something about it.

Foreman was taken aback. Chase had shown some anger with him yesterday. He would go ballistic if it were suggested that he be committed for psychiatric observation. "He won't listen to me. You're his attending physician."

"I released him from hospital care. I can't just bring him back and stick him in the psych ward."

"But if he needs it…"

"I'm his employer, not his parent. I don't have power to institutionalize him. So unless you want to make a case to the PDP or a judge, there's nothing we can do. He won't voluntarily commit himself even if he is suicidal."

"What?" Cameron gasp, walking into the office just in time to hear House's last sentence. "Chase is suicidal?" She felt as if her heart had stopped beating for a moment. "Did he hurt himself? Is he here now?" She was overwhelmed by the need to find him and make sure he was safe.

"We're not talking about Chase," House answered.

"Yes you are," Cameron argued. "I'm not an idiot. You haven't accepted a case since he got hurt. What makes you think he's suicidal? Is he here?" she repeated.

"He's at home and I don't think he's suicidal," House answered.

"Then why did you say that?"

"Foreman's idea." He nodded toward the other man."I was just telling him how bad of an idea it is."

"You went to see him yesterday, didn't you?" Cameron asked, turning her attention to her colleague.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"It's really none of your business," Foreman answered calmly. He did not want to be rude, but he did not think she needed to know everything either.

"I'm worried about him." Cameron answered. "He e-mailed me yesterday and I can tell he's feeling down." She turned to House and glared. "It doesn't help that you've got him acting like a damn maid. Don't you think he's been emasculated enough without having to do your cooking and cleaning?"

"I haven't asked him to do a damn thing," House refuted. "He could watch cartoons all day long for all I care. Was he complaining or just telling you how he's passing his time?"

Cameron paused thoughtfully. "I guess he could have just been telling me what he's doing. He said he's bored out of his mind."

"Then he's bored," House said. "He really doesn't need the two of you to look for cryptic meanings. For your information, he seems to enjoy cooking." House was unusually defensive. Chase had been pleased when he had cooked and House and Wilson had enjoyed their meals.

"But it can't be good for him to be holed up in your apartment twenty-four/seven," Cameron countered.

"Do either of you want him?" House asked.

Neither answered.They looked at each other blankly, then back to House.

"If you both think I'm doing him such a disservice, perhaps he should move in with one of you. Or he should go back to his own apartment, the one the psychos broke into. Would that be best for him?"

Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances again.

"Well?" House prodded. "Exactly what would you do? What's the perfect solution?"

"Psych ward," Foreman mumbled.

"Until--_unless_ he does something to hurt himself there's no justification. You think he's suicidal, but he hasn't done or said anything to make me believe that."

"You weren't there," Foreman argued.

"I've been there a hell of a lot more than you have," House reminded him loudly. "I did his initial examination. I did his follow up care. He's in my damn home. Don't tell me that I don't know what's going on! You spent, what? Two hours with him? Now you think you're an expert. You're not."

Foreman gave a sidelong glance to Cameron, wishing she was not in the room. "He was talking complete nonsense for a while. I don't think he's in a very good place mentally."

"What kind of nonsense?" Cameron questioneded. "His e-mail was perfectly lucid."

Foreman shook his head, "I'm not telling you."

Cameron looked offended. "Maybe I could help you make sense of it."

"Would you two shut up?" House looked pointedly at Foreman, "He's confused." He looked to Cameron, "He's depressed. What do you expect? He was held at gunpoint, strangled, and sexually assaulted. He's been on a regimen of medications that would throw anyone off kilter. His home was invaded. He's in a strange environment trying to recover. He doesn't deserve to be tackled and put in a straightjacket just because it would be easier to let someone else deal with him."

Foreman and Cameron both watched and listened to House, disbelieving the implications of what he was saying. That sounded suspiciously like _caring_.

"He's going to have moments when he's a little out of it," House told Foreman. He looked to Cameron, "If scrubbing the bathroom makes him feel productive, let him do it. Whatever he's doing, it's better for him to be doing it away from his own apartment. The useless police in this town are no closer to finding those freaks than they were a week ago."

"What if they're never caught?" Cameron asked softly. "You're not going to let him live with you forever."

House had considered the options of what Chase might do about living arrangements, but did not have any intention of sharing his thoughts with Cameron or Foreman. He doubted Chase had thought that far ahead. He was stuck in this limbo of trying to recover so that he could be free him to move on with his life. Instead of giving them a real answer he said with a scoff, "My kitchen floor sparkles. My clothes smell good. There's food on the table. I wouldn't let Chase leave if they found and executed the bastards who hurt him tomorrow. You both have clinic duty. Get out of my office."


	23. Chapter 23

Chase wriggled in the recliner, trying to get comfortable, but the better part of fourteen hours in a Lay-Z-Boy was more than the body was designed to handle. He considered moving to the couch, but that would take more energy than he had to spare. He turned onto his right side and closed his eyes.

Even the sound of Kacey scratching in the litter box did not encourage him to leave his position. He heard a demanding "meow," but ignored it. The cat probably had food in his bowl. He just wanted more because he wanted attention which he had not gotten by jumping into his master's lap or butting his head against his face or biting his toes through the covers or dropping a toy sock onto his shoulder. Even when Kacey pressed his paw to Chase's cheek it only made him turn away, so the cat jumped back to the floor and left to find amusement elsewhere.

Chase pulled the sheet covering him to his chin and closed his eyes even more tightly. He thought about Foreman and House. Foreman had wasted no time in leaving once House had arrived after work the night before, but he was probably telling House all about his veer from reality. He imagined himself at work on a normal day, the kind of day where they ran a differential diagnosis and tried to narrow down causes for strange symptoms. He could almost hear them going over ideas. House, Foreman, and Cameron should be discussing someone with lead poisoning or even lupus, but not him.

He could imagine himself there, but of no consequence. If they all thought he was crazy, they would not take his ideas seriously. He might as well sit at the conference table and work sudoku puzzles all day long. He would not allow himself to consider passing his days in clinic duty, even in his imagination.

He was cold, so he found the blanket he had pushed aside and smoothed it over himself. Not a minute had passed when he decided he was too hot and the blanket was shoved away again. He caught a chill and, in frustration, sat up and unfolded the quilt his grandmother had made and used it for cover. After nearly twenty years of use, it was thinner than the blanket, but thicker than the sheet. Its familiarity was comforting.

He remembered his grandmother fondly. Chase was certain that one person in the world had truly loved him: Valerie Whalan. She had treated him as if he were the best thing that had ever come into her life. He had spent more time with her than with his own parents when he was very young. She was a sturdy woman who worked much harder than necessary. Despite marrying a wealthy man, she was determined to grow her own vegetables and make her own jams an jellies because she could. She refused to be a lady of leisure, saying that that was the kind of lifestyle that led to an early grave. She spent her summers outside in the sun and her winters working on crafts, like this quilt. Chase had watched her stitch it together as she sat by the fireplace in a rocking chair, telling him stories of when she was young.

She told him about the materials she used. "This was your grandfather's shirt," she said, holding up a red and yellow plaid piece. He nodded, but did not remember the man very well. He recalled being very young and knowing that he had to be quiet in his grandparent's home because his grandfather was very ill and needed his rest. He remembered Richard Whalan's funeral, the first he had ever attended. He had been four years old at the time and while his mother protested that he was too young, his grandmother had said he was perceptive enough to be there and behave properly.

"This was a dress your Mum wore when she was about your age," Valerie said as he touched the lacey pink material. "And this one is from my favorite apron," she held up a cotton triangle with a small leafy pattern that he immediately recognized. Even as a child, he had considered it very special that she would cut up the apron she wore almost every day just to make a quilt for him. "I got your Mum to give me one of your father's shirts too." She showed him a burgundy patch that he did not hold any memories for him. His father was so busy that there was very little familiar about him. Some of the patches were made from his own clothes he had outgrown. There was linen that had once been white but taken on a yellowish hue with age. "This was my mother's," Valerie explained. "She's not with us anymore, but her smile was a ray of sunshine, just like yours. When I was your age--believe it or not, I was once as little as you--I helped in her garden, just like you help in mine." He had smiled brightly for her, imagining his great-grandmother as an older version of his grandmother.

To this day, every patch of mismatched fabric brought to mind the person it represented in his life. Sometimes when he missed his mother or his grandmother, he would run his fingers over a well worn piece of fabric and get a picture in his mind of them wearing the original items. He lamented that touching the patches that were for his father only brought curiosity, shame, and resentment. Sometimes Chase felt the only positive thing he had to associate with his the man was a the little bit of the Czech language he had learned.

He reminisced about Valerie's soft spot for stray animals. If a cat or dog wandered onto her property all it had to do was look hungry and she would feed it and welcome it into her brood. She had one daughter and one grandson and plenty of love in her heart for any needy creature that came along. Sometimes Chase had felt like a stray dog too--no one really wanted him at home, but he was something worthy to her. Sometimes he wondered if she had sent a stray kitten his way, knowing how lonely he was in New Jersey.

What would his dear grandmother think of him now? She had died when he was nine, before he had had the chance to severely disappoint her and a few years before Rowan left and her daughter's life had spiraled completely out of control. He imagined Valerie wrapping him in a tight hug and kissing his forehead. Whether he skinned his knees or shattered a piece of the good china or came to her after school crying, she always the said the same thing, "You'll be fine, my sweet little mouse. You have the heart of a lion."

He thought about the stories he had read on that website and how he had gotten up in the middle of the night and added his own, but only after changing his username because anything with his initials had suddenly made him too easy to identify. His writing had been choppy and sometimes redundant. He hated the way it read. He had always been more adept at putting ideas into words than it indicated, but he did the best he could given the subject.

Like a lot of you, I guess I'm looking for validation that I'm not crazy. I just spent half an hour sitting on the bathroom floor crying my eyes out while my coworker--not my friend, my coworker--watched. I suppose this is where it's important to state that said coworker was also there when I was attacked at work recently. We were held hostage by two men and they threatened to kill him if I didn't cooperate. This afternoon he told me that he had wanted me to cooperate with them so he wouldn't get hurt. He said he had no idea what they intended to do to me. We were talking, but he got upset and he yelled and I freaked out. I don't blame him, but he didn't do or say anything while I was strangled and assaulted. They forced him to help them. I know things were bad for him too. I was hospitalized for a while afterwards and he didn't come to see me until the woman in our department made him. I'm on a leave of absence from work because of the extent of my injuries. I'm trying to get to the part where he came to see me while I'm recovering and when he yelled at me, it was like all these memories started coming back all at once. After it happened, I could remember stuff up to the point where I was strangled and the rest was more of knowing what happened because of the injuries, but not really remembering what happened. So, then Fred was here and I guess I thought he was going to hurt me or something, so I ran away. Everything started coming back in these moments of memory, like his hands on my neck and how the floor was cold and other little details that make a bigger picture in my head. Maybe it wasn't everything. I don't know. It was enough. I could see, hear, feel, taste, smell the man who hurt me. It was like being trapped there all over again, but I kind of knew it wasn't really happening. I couldn't make it stop though. I couldn't control my mind. Fred was watching me and I think he tried to talk to me, but it didn't help. Afterwards, he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept talking and I just wanted to be alone and rest. I don't even remember what I said to him, but I don't think it made much sense. So now I'm afraid he's going to tell my boss that I'm nuts and no one will take me seriously at work anymore. Maybe they won't anyway. Everyone knows what happened, not just the few people in my department. I have no idea what it will be like when I go back to work. My job is all I have. I can't lose it. And I don't know how I'm going to work with Fred everyday when he was there when it happened and there when I remembered it. He's fine though. He hasn't lost his mind. Can someone please tell me that I haven't lost my mind either? This will stop eventually, right? Maybe now that I remember the worst part there's nothing left to come back like that. Is it possible to go back to functioning like a normal human being? I want to be normal.

He had become New Guy.

Only a few minutes had passed when Shriner#12 responded to him.

Welcome Myska,

It's not uncommon for a person who has been through trauma to experience flashbacks that are very realistic. Fred sounds like a jerk. Don't obsess over what he thinks or says or does. Focus on healing. For starters, call a spade a spade. If you were raped, face it. Say it. Own it. I noticed you say "attacked" and "hurt" and "assaulted." Sure, we know why you're here. But do you? And get a therapist, you'll need it whether you want it or not.

Then truckdrivingman had responded.

Lay off, Shriner. Sounds like he needs some more time to accept it. I agree you have to call it what it is, but not until you're ready. Saying the word won't magically make you better.

Chase had responded.

What does that mean? How do I own something that was done to me? The only choice I had was let them do what they wanted or see Fred's brains blown out, not to mention putting at risk the other people in the building. It's just a miracle that they didn't shoot us both anyway. I don't want to own any part of that. I just want to move on, stop remembering it, stop thinking about it, and get better physically so I can go back to work.

Shriner#12 had also followed up his response almost immediately.

You look at the choice you made: cooperation to save someone's life, maybe more than one person's life. You owned that moment by making the unselfish choice and deciding that your body was less important than a life. It's just your body, man. They didn't take away who you are or your ability to do your job. If you're worried about what people at work think, then take control of what side of the story they're presented. If they're tactless enough to say something, make it clear that you were raped. That's not sex. It's not being weak. It's a violent act of force or coercion. Something was done to you against your will and the best way to keep people from twisting it into something it's not is to make them see it for what it is. I'm guessing you don't want to be viewed as a homosexual because another man forced himself on you.

Chase thought that response made more sense than the first one.

Honestly, the idea of being viewed as gay doesn't bother me as much as being viewed as incompetent. I'm not gay, and I don't really think anyone who knows me would think that I am. My fear is that people will think that because this happened and because I've had to take some time off work, that I've gone off the deep end or something. I kind of have, I guess. My work demands responsibility, clarity, and decisiveness. I can't afford to freak out at work, and more importantly, other people rely on me to not get caught up in my own head. So, where does this end? How do I get to a point where I can trust my own mind enough to expect other people to trust me too?

He waited a while, but no one responded. It was very late and he thought his new "friends" may have gone to bed or found something else to do. He had decided it was time for him to go back to bed as well. Besides, they were hardly well-adjusted if they also were up at two o'clock in in the morning seeking compatriots on a website. He had thought about the virtual conversation until he fell asleep again. Now he wondered if there were any more responses to his story, but did not bother to get up to turn on the computer to see. It would still be there whenever he got around to checking it.

Today, he did not mind hiding in House's apartment. Whether the time was passing slowly or quickly, he was not sure and did not care. He wondered if the thing that mattered the most to him would be there whenever someone dubbed him ready to go back to work. He knew that lying in the recliner for hours on end would not do anything to strengthen any claim that he was healing emotionally, but no matter how much logic he used to motivate himself to just get up and do something, his body stayed frozen. Maybe if he were still enough, he could go back to sleep and nothing would matter at all. His fear of being perceived as incompetent could melt into some strange adventure with a wallaby and an MRI or into nothing at all. Uninterrupted darkness would be welcomed.

He was not sure exactly how much time had gone by when he heard a banging on the door. He shook his head, imagining that Foreman was back to apologize again, though he would likely make it all about himself somehow. Chase did not think he could take that, so he stayed where he was. Whoever it was would leave. If not Foreman, it was a salesman. He did not care to find out either way.

There was the sound of metal scraping against metal and the door creaked open slowly. Chase felt his heart leap into his throat. He immediately thought that Joe and Dave had found him. He hastily moved the recliner into the sitting position and saw Cameron closing the door behind her as she flipped the light switch.

She heard the commotion of his moving the chair and saw the wide-eyed panicked expression on his face. "I'm sorry," she started. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Chase caught his breath, relieved to see her instead of the faces that had turned him into this, whatever it was he had become. He was immediately embarrassed. Glancing at the clock on the DVD player, he saw that it was after noon, yet he was still in his clothes from the day before. He had not showered, shaved, or brushed his teeth that morning.

What Cameron saw made her heart hurt. Chase looked more unkempt than she had ever seen him before, even after a thirty two hour stint in the ER during an ice storm the previous winter. His hair was jutting out in different directions which somehow made him look even younger than he normally did. He was draped in the well-worn quilt that she had first seen in his apartment. His eyes looked hollow and conveyed the fear he had felt when she had entered the room. She knew it was a fear he would never admit to her, even if she asked him about it. His tired eyes also conveyed that even though he was still "in bed," he had not been sleeping. It was a contrast to the Chase she expected to find, busy doing something boring but domestic. "You look terrible," she told him.

Chase glanced down at himself taking in the crumpled clothes that might possibly still reek of his sickness the day before and the impression of laziness he must be giving at the moment. He really wished she had called first.

"Well, get up. Go shave and shower and get dressed. We're going out," she announced.

"Where?" he asked. Was he allowed to leave?

She was almost startled to hear his voice. It had an oddly higher pitch than she was expecting. It had always amused her that Chase had those boyish features with that deep voice. She imagined it must have been humorous when he was a teenager to hear that very masculine voice coming from a youth.

"You can't stay in this apartment twenty-four hours a day. We're going to do something fun," she told him. She was not giving him the option to decline. She was certain that if she asked if he wanted to go out he would come up with an excuse to avoid the outside world. He may have been bored doing housework, but he was also afraid of encountering those men. If given the option, he would have claimed he did not feel well or, God forbid, that he did not have House's permission to leave.

"Don't you have to get back to work?" he asked.

"I'm taking the rest of the day off. I have plenty of vacation time," she smiled. "So, get to it. I'm starving. First stop is lunch."

Chase nodded. He was glad he could slip by her without getting too close just in case his clothes smelled. He noticed that she was dressed casually in jeans and a green chenille sweater. He did not have a huge assortment of clothes with him, but he picked jeans and a button-up blue shirt with light blue vertical stripes. He took his shower quickly, still embarrassed that she had found him in such a state of disarray.

Cameron decided to fold the blanket, sheet, and quilt that Chase had draped over the chair. Kacey approached her and caressed her legs, purring. She leaned down and scratched behind his ears, once more flabbergasted that Chase and his cat had been welcomed visitors in House's home.

Cameron decided she had better leave House a note, so she scribbled "House, Chase and I are spending the afternoon together," and signed her name. She had no idea how long they would be gone. She was attaching the note to the refrigerator with a magnet that had the name and number of House's favorite Chinese place when Chase walked into the kitchen saying, "I should leave House a note."

She smiled and pointed to the one she had just written.

"Oh," he said. He noticed that Kacey's dish actually was empty, so he bent over, opened the bag, and scooped out a cupful of food. "Sorry about that," he said as Kacey zipped to the bowl and started eating. He felt a little guilty and more embarrassed that Cameron had seen that he had not even managed to feed the cat today. So much for his reason for living--not that she nor anyone else would ever know that he had narrowed the purpose of his survival down to feeding a cat.

He grabbed his cell phone off the counter, felt in his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet and said, "Where do you want to go?"

"Lunch!" she answered enthusiastically. "I could eat a horse. And, from the looks of it, you _need_ to." It was easy to see how baggy his jeans had become.

"I doubt that," he smiled. "But in that case, you can pick where we go. I just have one request."

"What's that?" she asked, glad that he was assertive enough to speak up about something he wanted to do.

"I really need to go to the bank or an ATM," he told her. He sifted through the clothes he had with him. House's living room was serving as his makeshift bedroom and he had put all of his things from home in a suitcase that House let him borrow, claiming that he could not believe that Cameron and Foreman had put all his belongings in garbage bags. "Crap. I don't have a jacket. Do you think House would mind if I borrowed one of his?"

"I don't think he would care," Cameron answered. Actually, he might. House was odd about certain things.

"I hope not," Chase said. He opened the hall closet and found a black leather jacket that was pushed to the very end. There was a light sheath of dust across the shoulders, so he figured that House had not worn it in a long time. "He must not like this one much," he announced as he brought it out of the closet. It even smelled a bit like moth balls. He took a kitchen towel and wiped the dust off of it and put it on. It fit him well, so it was probably too small for House anyway. He walked to the refrigerator and amended Cameron's note by adding, "I borrowed a jacket. Hope that's okay."

Cameron led him outside and locked the door behind them. She replaced the spare key under the mat where she had found it before. "Looks like we're ready to go. So, seriously. You better decide what you want for lunch."

"I said you could pick," he reminded her.

"I want you to pick," she argued.

"But, I want you to pick," Chase replied, breathing fresh air for the first time in a while.

"Never!" She swatted his arm as they walked toward her car.

_AN: Myska is Czech for "mouse." At least I hope it is. It could mean "great big rodent who eats children for breakfast" for all I know. ;-) I love feedback but don't always respond (because some people have told me it's annoying) and because I'm usually focused on writing more of the story. Ranee and chickleta--thanks for the recent recs. _


	24. Chapter 24

_AN: Grab a cup of coffee. Super Long Mega Chapter has arrived. :-)_

Cameron would not relent and make a decision about where to have lunch. In her mind, making Chase choose a restaurant was a small step on the way to making him take control of his life again. She knew he had lost control that day in the clinic and not had it since.

Finally, Chase admitted that he was in the mood for Japanese. They were a little later than the normal lunch crowd, so they were seated at a hibachi grill immediately, but had to wait about twenty minutes for enough other diners to arrive for the chef to get started.

"I'm sorry this is taking so long," Chase told her. "How's your sweater holding up?"

She laughed. "It's okay for now." She had been annoyed to find that the cloth seat in her car was covered with fine green strands from the chenille of her sweater. It had gone from annoying to funny when she reached to turn on the radio and a dime-sized piece of green chenille flew into the air.

"I'm not so sure," Chase told her, discretely pointing to a few clumps of green cloth on the floor.

"Unbelievable," Cameron groaned. "I just bought this damn thing."

"I think it's defective," Chase laughed.

The waiter came to take their order as an older couple were seated next to Cameron. Chase had the outside seat, for which he was grateful. He had not considered how uncomfortable it might be to sit next to strangers at the grill.

"I'd like the hibachi vegetables and fried rice," Chase told the waiter.

"I'll have the same," Cameron decided.

"Are you not eating meat because I'm not eating meat?" Chase asked her. He had decided to maintain a vegetarian diet for a few weeks to lower the risk of damaging his throat.

She considered her answer, "I don't want to eat something in front of you that you can't have," she said, deciding to just be honest with him.

"I don't mind," he told her. "But that's really sweet of you," he smiled again.

"When your throat is completely healed, we'll go get a nice, juicy steak," Cameron promised. She liked seeing him relaxed and smiling while they chatted.

"Sounds good," Chase told her, pondering the implications. "I should treat all of you to a very nice dinner. You've been so kind to me."

Cameron started to reply, but the lady next to her got her attention with a polite, "Excuse me, Miss." She turned to the woman who was studying the menu.

"Do you know anything about sushi?" she asked. She was about sixty years old and wore an expensive blue dress that was a few years out of style.

"Not a lot," Cameron admitted. "I like the spider rolls. They have crab in them. I think Chase could tell you more than me."

"What would you recommend?" she asked. "My husband and I have never tried sushi before and we decided we would give it a shot. His cholesterol is too high, so the doctor said we need to eat more fish and less beef."

"Margaret, don't tell complete strangers about my cholesterol," the man complained gruffly. "Raw fish. Why would anyone want to eat raw fish?"

"It's not all raw," Chase told them, leaning forward so they could see and hear him more clearly. "It's preserved with salt and fermented with rice, usually. The spider rolls like Cameron mentioned have fried crabmeat. A Philadelphia roll has smoked salmon." He explained a few more of the items to the couple until they had decided what they would try. By that time, four more guests had been seated.

"Thanks for your help," the woman told Chase. "So, how long have you two been together? You're a cute couple."

Both Cameron and Chase were momentarily rendered speechless. "We're friends," Cameron answered.

"That's a good place to start," the woman grinned, patting Cameron's arm. She leaned in and whispered, "He's a cutie."

Cameron looked down at the salad that had just been placed in front of her and Chase looked away, watching the chef at the next grill.

Cameron lifted her fork to try her salad and a tuft of green chenille flew into the air and landed on the empty plate beside her salad bowl.

Chase bit his lip, stifling a laugh.

"Shut up," Cameron swatted him with her left hand, and the movement released another patch of chenille.

Chase could not hold back his laughter as the material settled onto his plate. He leaned over and blew it back to it's rightful owner. "You lost something," he grinned.

Cameron started laughing as well. "At this rate, I'll be naked by the time we finish eating."

"That wouldn't be so bad," Chase smirked, earning another swat and another patch of fabric in his plate. "Stop hitting me!" he whined playfully. "You'll only get naked faster that way," he warned.

"Hit him again," Margaret's husband interjected dryly.

Cameron blushed, but the four of them all laughed when Margaret swatted him just as Cameron had done to Chase.

The older couple were brought their sushi by a waitress who also offered everyone refills for their drinks.Chase drank some soup from a cup, but ignored his salad.

The chef wheeled his cart into the space behind the grill and began his show. He started by igniting a cleansing blaze on the grill. He juggled eggs, catching one in his red hat and one in the pocket of his white shirt. They guests applauded his antics. He declared that he was seasoning the rice with Dr. Pepper as he added soy sauce. He made a show of twirling knives and spatulas before chopping the vegetables for Chase and Cameron's dishes into very small pieces. He then put shrimp, chicken, and steak on the grill for the other customers, slicing the meat in quick motions. He heaped rice onto each plate and then attempted to give each patron at least two shrimp. Chase politely refused his ration, so they were added to Cameron's plate. After serving the last of the main dishes, the chef made a tower from an onion, filled it with oil and then lit it with a match. It flamed high for a few seconds before burning itself out. He made a show of offering Chase the entire onion which made all the guests laugh. "For the vegetarian!" he declared in a thick Japanese accent.

Before Chase could respond, everyone's attention was captured by Margaret's husband. He was coughing and clutching his chest.

"Bob!" she screamed. "Bob, what's wrong?"

Chase was on his feet in an instant. "Where does it hurt?" he asked the man.

"Arm," Bob said in a labored voice. "Chest."

"Call 911," Chase told Cameron, but she already had her cell phone to her ear.

"What's the physical address of the restaurant?" she asked the chef. He looked at her as if he did not understand. She realized he probably knew limited English. "What's the address?" she shouted to anyone who would listen.

Chase had moved the man to the floor, telling him to lie still. "Does anyone have any aspirin?" he asked the room full or mortified patrons, straining his voice. "Check your purses and pockets, please. He's having a heart attack."

"I need to know the address!" Cameron repeated to a woman who came running from the kitchen.

"Check the menu!" Chase suggested. A woman timidly approached him with a bottle of aspirin. "Thank you," he told her taking the bottle. Open your mouth," he directed the man. "Give me his water," he told Margaret, but she was watching in disbelief. The woman who had brought the aspirin gave Chase Bob's glass of water. "Swallow!" Chase ordered, supporting his head so that he would not choke.

Cameron found the address of the restaurant was indeed printed on the menu. "Tell them to get here STAT. He hasn't gone into arrest yet," she said before ending the call.

"You spoke too soon," Chase told her. Bob had gone into cardiac arrest as she was ending the call.

Cameron joined Chase on the floor as Chase was checking Bob's air passage. "His heart's not beating. We'll have to do CPR," he told her. They worked together--Chase doing chest compressions and Cameron breathing into his mouth. Eight minutes after Cameron had placed the call, three EMT's rushed into the restaurant with their equipment. Chase and Cameron continued working with the patient while the EMT's set up the defibrillator. Chase ripped open the man's shirt, grabbed the paddles and yelled "Clear" before administering the shock.

"Hey, you can't--" one of the EMT's objected, assuming the two people working with the man were Good Samaritans.

"We're both doctors," Cameron snapped. "He's an intensivist. He's a hell of a lot more qualified than you." Chase had just shocked the man a second time. Cameron checked his vitals. "He's got a pulse," she announced, relief sweeping over her.

"Oh, thank God!" Margaret cried. She had been desperately clinging to the woman with the aspirin while she watched the two young doctors keep her husband alive.

The EMT's took over when Chase was satisfied that he could step away from the patient.

"Thank you both so much!" Margaret exclaimed, throwing her arms around both of them. "God bless you," she said giving each a quick kiss on the cheek.

She followed as her husband was taken onto the ambulance.

Chase and Cameron hugged each other, "Good job," he told her.

"You were fabulous," Cameron said.

"Half of your sweater is on the floor," Chase pointed to the spot where Cameron had been kneeling by Bob. There were tiny strands of green covering the area where she had kneeled.

"Good thing it's a thick sweater," Cameron shook her head, irritated. "I'm never buying chenille again." She turned back to her plate. "And I'm still hungry." She sat down.

A man approached them and explained in broken English that they would like to prepare a fresh meal for the heroes.

Cameron told him that what they had would be fine, but he insisted. The restaurant manager also refused payment and gave them a handful of gift certificates, "Come back any time. We will be proud to serve you."

"It's still exhilarating to save a life, isn't it?" Cameron asked on their way to the car.

"I think I'm swearing off restaurants," Chase told her.

She thought he sounded oddly sad for someone who had just done a wonderful thing. "Oh my gosh," she gasped, realizing the connection he had made. He had initially saved Joe's life during an emergency situation at a restaurant. But the connection led her to an entirely different realization, "Chase, don't you see?" she stopped still outside the door of the restaurant.

He faced her, waiting for her to explain.

"It didn't phase you. You jumped right into action and saved that man's life. You didn't think about that maniac. You didn't pause. You didn't act confused. You knew exactly what to do and you did it."

"You're right," Chase agreed. "I _didn't_ think about Joe at all, not until just now."

"That' awesome!" she exclaimed, hugging him again. While she found it weird that he referred to his attacker on a first name basis, she was happy to know that the man had not entered his thoughts for a while. "You're like a superhero or something," Cameron joked. "You go around Princeton saving diners from medical disasters. We'll get you a white cape with a red cross on the back of it and call you Medico-Man." She led him to her car. "Medico-Man to the rescue!" she sang in a key never before heard by human ears.

He could not help but snicker at her description and singing. "Where's Nuclear Knitter when you need him though?" Chase asked. There was a trail of green chenille all the way from the door to the car.

"I'm throwing it away," she declared. "I've left green fur all over Princeton."

"Where do you want to go?" Cameron asked Chase when they were back in her car. "Movie? Bookstore? Pet store?"

He considered her question and decided to tell her the truth. "Home," he answered, his voice low. He was looking out the window at the drab parking lot. The sky was a dreary gray.

"Back to House's?" Cameron asked, disappointed that he wanted to put an end to their outing. She wondered why he seemed so depressed when they had just saved a man's life. She reminded herself that Chase had been prone to mood swings since the attack.

"No, my home," he answered, still avoiding eye contact.

"Australia?" Cameron exclaimed. She was glad she had not left the parking lot since she would probably have driven off the road. "I don't want you to leave," she admitted, surprising herself. "You'll get better, I promise. Look at what you just did."

Chase turned to her, surprised that it mattered to her one way or the other. "I meant my apartment," he clarified. He was not sure what led him to do it, but he took her hand which had fallen to her lap. "Australia was never really home."

Something inside her melted when Chase chanced looking in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she told him. It was a revealing statement, the kind of thing she normally would have latched onto and quizzed him about until she knew the details of why he felt that way. This time, she let it go knowing he was hurting so much as it was that it would do no good for him to trudge up memories of his past.

He let go of her hand almost as quickly as he had taken it.

He picked piece of green lint off the console and pressed it against her arm, "Maybe we should stop at the mall on the way," he joked, trying to distract her from asking about his family.

Cameron did not need the hint, "Maybe I can borrow one of your shirts when we get to your place," she suggested. If he wanted to go home, that is where she would take him.

"Sure," he answered. "Thanks for taking me home. I should make sure the place is still standing."

"It's no trouble," she assured him. She hoped she was not doing something wrong by taking him back to that apartment. She told herself that it would be fine. It was not as if the police had marked it with yellow tape after the attempted break-in. She and Foreman had been there after the repairmen had fixed the window. She figured the men who had hurt Chase were long gone by now. The likelihood that they would jump out of the bushes and attack again was next to nothing.

They drove to Chase's apartment in silence. Cameron was lost in her thoughts. Had she just had a _moment_ with Chase? She knew the answer to that question. What she really wondered was if he had had a _moment_ with her too or if it was one-sided. Chase was hard to read, especially now.

He was more brooding than he had ever been before, obviously caught within his own pain. Before the attack, some kind of pain was there; but he did not dwell on it. He did not reveal things about himself to gain sympathy. She wondered why it seemed that some men like House could get away with wallowing in their own pain, using it as an excuse to hurt others, and still seem attractive to the opposite sex while someone like Chase who battled his demons quietly came across as aloof or cold. Had House been right about her? Was she actively seeking damage so she could repair it? In that case, had her crush on House been the result of her going for the most overtly damaged man she could find just to have a project? Whether anyone believed her or not, she was over him and regretted ever making her feelings known.

She knew Chase was still Chase somewhere within everything he was going through. He could have used their e-mails to tell her how miserable he was and seek her sympathy. He could have spilled his guts to her while they were in the car. He could have been telling her all the gory details of what had happened to him right this minute, only it was not the way he did things. Chase had never used his personal problems as a free pass to lash out at patients or coworkers or as a means to gain sympathy. He was stronger than she had given him credit for being. Strength did not come solely from enduring, but from enduring well.

She took her eyes off the road a moment and saw that he was simply looking out the window. He had been through things that would have made weaker men crumble. She had been researching male rape and found that suicide was a sad end for many victims of assault. She wondered how many men had been attacked and killed themselves, ensuring no one ever knew what had really triggered their decision.

She hoped that House was right about Chase. He was not suicidal, but depressed and sometimes confused. And _lonely_, she added. How could he not be lonely when the only person he had to confide in was House? Compassion was not his strongest attribute. "You can talk to me, you know," she told him.

Chase turned to her, looking distracted. She wondered what thoughts she had interrupted. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was just thinking. Do you think that man will be okay?" he asked.

"I don't mean you have to make inane chit-chat," she explained. "I mean, if you need to talk about something. You can talk to me. You don't have to be alone."

"Oh," he responded. He looked for more fly-away green chenille. It was a kind offer, but he was uncertain that talking to her would be the right thing to do. He was already a burden on House and, to some extent, Wilson. "Thanks," he added.

She waited expectantly, hoping he would take her up on her offer. She did not prod further, believing that it would be difficult for him to verbalize what had happened. She would give him time.

They arrived at his building a few minutes later. She parked and they both got out of the car and went into the lobby. They were near the elevator when a woman came running toward them calling out, "Dr. Chase!"

He cringed, but turned around to face her. "Mrs. Giordano," he greeted.

She looked as if running to him had left her winded. "Dr. Chase, where have you been?" she asked. "No one has been in your apartment in quite a while."

"I was in the hospital," he explained without giving her any details.

"You had a three-week shift?" It was not uncommon for Dr. Chase to be gone for a period of several days, but this was the longest he had ever been gone at one time.

"I've been a patient."

"My goodness. Are you all right?"

"Getting better. You should have gotten the rent a week ago. I sent--"

"Oh, that's not it, dear. I was worried about you," Mrs. Giordano took his hand. "Turn around," she ordered, practically forcing him to spin for her. "You've lost weight, haven't you?" she observed as he complied with her request. Even with the bulk of the jacket, she could tell his clothes were loose. "And your voice sounds odd. What's the matter?"

"Pneumonia," he lied.

"Wait a minute…" she started, "You work at Princeton Plainsboro. We haven't seen you since that doctor got attacked in the clinic. That was at your hospital. And Frank said someone tried to break into your apartment about that same time. Are you in trouble?" she asked suspiciously.

"Dr. Chase had a nasty case of pneumonia," Cameron interjected. "Viral, very contagious. He and the patient that he treated who gave it to him both had to be quarantined so that we would not wind up with an epidemic in the hospital." She placed her arm around his back, "He's still weak and needs to rest. I really should get him upstairs."

"This is Dr. Allison Cameron," Chase introduced her to his landlord's wife. He leaned into her arm, grateful that she had backed up his story and added realistic details. Suspecting that it would only make his throat hurt worse, he refrained from faking a coughing fit.

"I hope you feel better soon," Mrs. Giordano told him, not sounding convinced that either of them were telling the truth.

"Thanks," he whispered as they waited for the elevator.

"No problem." She kept her arm around him though Mrs. Giordano had turned and walked away, telling herself it was to convince the woman of her story.

Though he had left his set of keys at House's place, Chase had a spare key to his door in his wallet. What struck him most as he opened the door was not the slightly stale air or a feeling of being "home." It was the feeling of walking into someone else's home. He was not the same person who had closed and locked the door and left with no idea that it would be weeks before he came back. Chase realized that person was never coming back. Someone had died on the clinic floor after all.

He flipped a light switch and looked around the room, surveying it as if it were the home of a patient before he started to look for toxins. There was little out of place. His quilt was noticeably absent from the back of his sofa. The curtains on the window that had been broken were askew.

Cameron thought it was odd that Chase paused before walking into his own home. She wondered what was going through his mind.

"You want to watch TV or something?" Chase asked her, taking off House's jacket and laying it on the back of his chair. He adjusted the thermostat on the wall, reminding himself to turn it down before they left. "I need to clean out the fridge and the litter box."

"You came home to clean?" Cameron asked.

"No," he answered truthfully. "But now that I'm here, I know it needs to be done."

"Actually, Foreman and I cleaned out the refrigerator when we were here and the cat box can wait. What did you really want to come here for?"

"Just to be here," he said. "I'd like to lie down in my own bed or on my own couch." He wanted some reminder of the life he had before the assault.

"Then do that," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the sofa. "If you want to go to bed, that's okay too."

"How much time do we have?" he asked, aware that he might be keeping her from something important.

"All the time you need. We're not on a deadline."

"Let me get you a shirt," he offered.

"Why don't you just rest," Cameron suggested. "I can just run into your bedroom and grab something out of the closet if you don't mind. I'll only take a minute."

"Sure. Okay," he replied, sitting on "his" end of the sofa after he removed the cat's mat so Cameron could sit with him. He kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the middle cushion.

Cameron returned in less than five minutes wearing a light blue button-up shirt with a narrow collar. She enjoyed the crisp clean smell of the detergent he used. The fabric was a stiffer cotton than she was used to wearing, but something about wearing Chase's shirt made her feel comfortable. She veered into the kitchen to toss the defectie sweater into the trash can before joining him on the couch, also kicking off her shoes and propping her feet in the middle. "Want to talk?" she asked.

"'Bout what?" he leaned against the curved armrest, savoring the familiarity of his own furniture. He breathed in the fragrance of his apartment. It was nothing specific, but some kind of combination of the furniture and books and his favorite fabric softener. It was a softer aroma than the one that made House's apartment unique.

"Anything," she offered.

"Interest rates?" he suggested, knowing they would never sit and discuss interest rates. He listened to the comfortable hum of the heating unit, finding it soothing.

"Anything but financial matters," she amended. "And politics."

He laughed, but turned serious. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I'm always nice," she said, lightly kicking his foot with her own.

"No, you're not," he told her. "I didn't think you even liked me."

She considered the truth he had given her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I recently realized I've been a bitch to you," she admitted.

"What changed?" he queried, feeling braver than he had in a while.

"This," she told him. "You know how when someone dies you start to think, 'I should have done this' or 'Why did I say that?' and you realize all these regrets you have?" He nodded and she continued, "When you got hurt, I realized you could have been killed and I regretted so much about the way I've treated you. I mouthed off to you about your father when I don't know what went on between you. Maybe you hate him for a very good reason. You don't hate House and look at the way he's treated you. I've made lots of assumptions about you without ever getting to know you, held your mistakes against you while refusing to admit to my own. If you had been killed, I would have spent the rest of my life wondering why I was so hostile toward you. You didn't deserve that. And I realized it could have been me that got attacked and strangled. I could have been killed. And if I died, then what would people remember about me? My family would tell everyone I was driven to be the best doctor I could be, but didn't have time for them. My coworkers would remember that I wasn't the best doctor and was a bitch to boot."

"You're not a bitch," Chase argued. "And you're a great doctor."

She tilted her head and widened her eyes, "Now who's being nice?"

"You didn't have any reason to be nice to me," he told her. "I messed up with the Vogler situation," he shrugged. "I was scared of losing my job. It meant everything to me."

She did not want to rehash that mess. "Chase, can we just start over? I can let go of Vogler if you can let go of the way I've been about your father, used you, and just been a first class bitch."

"I'd love for us to let go of all of that," he told her. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," she said.

"You've been really kind to me these past few weeks. You can't begin to know how much you've helped." He did not like for her to think of herself as a bitch. He believed that was not who she really was. "Sometimes I knew you were there in my hospital room, even when I was sleeping, and it helped."

Cameron felt tears in her eyes, "I really want to help," she said. "Please, Chase, if you're depressed or upset about anything, just call me. I don't want to lose you."

"You think I'm suicidal?" he asked, realizing what she feared. It was almost like a slap in the face. Suicidal meant mentally unstable which meant incompetent.

"Foreman does," she whispered, sliding her foot back and forth across the sofa cushion and watching the pattern it made against the fabric.

"Is that what this is about?" He felt betrayed, wondering if their newfound understanding was part of a grander manipulation.Was she just distracting him so he would not off himself?

"No," she told him firmly. "I don't believe you're suicidal, but just in case you ever get to that point, I want you to know I care about you. I always have cared about you, even when I haven't shown it."

"That's who you are. You care about patients and puppies and--"

"Don't minimize the fact that I care about you," she snapped, sounding almost angry. "You mean more to me than a patient or a puppy."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, afraid he had hurt her feelings.

They were silent for a few minutes, watching each other's face, separated by bent legs and sock-covered feet which met in the middle of the sofa.

"I didn't mean to minimize your concern. I was being whiney and self-deprecating."

"That was whiney?" she laughed. "Try being in the lab with Foreman when one of his tests comes back negative."

"So, Foreman thinks I'm a few snags short of a barbie?"

She blinked a few times, completely unfamilar with the expression. "You're speaking Aussie, aren't you?"

"Barking. Gone 'round the bend. Off my rocker," he added.

"He's concerned," she replied. Even if she did not agree with Foreman's assessment, she certainly understood why he could have reached the conclusion that Chase could become a danger to himself. It fit the statistics.

"He told you what happened?" Chase asked, staring at his own knees.

"No. He only said you weren't in a good place mentally and weren't making sense."

"Do you feel sorry for me? Is that why you're here?" Chase asked, relieved that she did not know he had lost his mind and sobbed uncontrollably while Foreman watched..

Cameron stopped herself from making a snappy reply. "I'm here because I care and because you can't stay hidden in House's apartment forever. It's not good for you."

"Sorry. Just had to check," he responded, looking up at her.

"I've enjoyed spending time with you, even just being in the same room with you in the hospital when you couldn't talk."

"So, we're friends?" Chase asked. He sounded unsure.

Cameron felt that part of her melting again. _I'm having another moment. I wonder if he's having a moment?_ Chase was exposing so much of his vulnerability by asking. "Of course we are."

"I can really talk to you?" he quizzed. Maybe talking to Cameron would be better than talking to strangers on an internet message board. At the very least, she was rational and he was not sure any of the other men in situations like his were.

She did not mind verifying that she had meant what she said. She welcomed him to talk with her.

"I remembered stuff," Chase volunteered the information before he could think it through and stop himself. "Foreman yelled at me and I guess I thought it was a threat. I kind of freaked out."

Cameron was dumbfounded for a moment, soaking in the image of Foreman going to see Chase and then yelling at him. "Why in the world would he yell at you?"

Chase shrugged.

"Maybe it's that he's upset too," she offered. "He's been yelling at everyone more than usual." Still, she thought Foreman would have been able to control himself around Chase since he, of all people, should have known how much damage that could cause. Whatever the reason, Foreman's problems were not where she wanted to focus her attention. "What did you remember?"

"Just… things," he answered. He doubted he would ever tell anyone the details. "I got confused after I remembered. That's why Foreman thinks I'm crazy. Maybe he's right."

She moved closer to him and took his hand in hers. "He's not." She hated that he was avoiding eye contact. "Chase, you're going to get better. I know you will."

He held onto her hand, but did not say anything.

"I had a friend in college that it happened to," Cameron shared. "She had nightmares and flashbacks and gained a lot of weight. She stopped going on dates and said no one would want her anymore. She let that one moment destroy her whole life. Please, don't do that, Chase."

"I know how she feels," Chase admitted. He looked up. "No woman is going to want me after this."

"Why would you say that?" Cameron asked, shocked by his words. Half the women in the hospital wanted him.

He realized that she really did not know why he believed what he said. "I was…" he murmured.

She held eye contact, waiting for him to finish the sentence. She nodded slightly to encourage him to continue.

He started again, feeling the invitation for honesty she was offering. "I was raped." He whispered softly, becoming queasy when he said it.

Cameron enveloped him in a hug, "I know." She rubbed his back as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm disgusting," he said quietly.

"No, you're not," she let go and tried to make eye contact, but he was avoiding her. "Look at me," she directed, cupping his chin. "You're not disgusting. Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"Another man…" He reminded her of who had been his rapist.

"If I had been raped, would you think I was disgusting?"

"Of course not," Chase answered immediately. "You couldn't help it."

"You could?"

He shook his head.

"I'm a man," he said, knowing it sounded stupid. "It's not supposed to happen."

"You're also a doctor and you know it happens."

"Do I have to tell?" he asked.

"Tell who?"

"A girl," he answered.

"What girl?"

"No one specific. But, if I'm with a girl, do I have to tell her? Is it wrong if I don't give her the option to leave because of it? She probably wouldn't want to be with me if she knew the truth."

"I think it's really your decision." Cameron realized that some reactions to rape were the same, regardless of the gender of the victim. Colleen had also wanted to know if she had to tell future partners about the assault, feeling like she was disgusting and anyone who knew the truth would also find her repulsive. But Colleen had never given anyone the chance to get close enough to tell them. Cameron had lost touch with her, but wondered briefly if she had ever moved past that obstacle in her life. She hoped Chase would not take that same path of seclusion. "But anyone who would leave you because of it doesn't deserve to be with you in the first place."

"Doesn't she have a right to know? Wouldn't you want to know?"

"Yes, I'd want to know," Cameron replied. "But not so that I could leave you, just to know you. You're not disgusting, Chase. I know what happened and I still think you're attractive."

He lost whatever thought was in his mind when Cameron suddenly covered his mouth with her own. She had moved from the center of the couch so that she was halfway beside him and halfway on top of him. Her weight against his torso was so different than the weight that had held him down in the clinic. He tried to push those thoughts away as she toyed with his lower lip. Her hand--soft, small, slim fingers--was against his cheek. It was caressing him, not gripping him tightly enough to leave bruises. He leaned into her hand and opened his mouth for her to explore.

He closed his eyes while she kissed him. It was sweet and shallow, not abrasive and intrusive. It deepened only when he brought his hand to her cheek and stroked her smooth skin. She smelled of orange and vanilla soap, not of cheap musky cologne and nicotine. She tasted like spearmint gum, not cigarettes. Her teeth were teasing, not tormenting.

Cameron tugged at Chase's shirt tail. His breath hitched as he felt her hands undoing buttons while never breaking their kiss. His mind flashed to the exam table, his arms behind his back while Joe's calloused hand roughly wandered over his chest and stomach groping and pinching. His stomach felt as if it were filling with buring acid at the memory.

Cameron slid her palm smoothly over his skin, pausing above his heart. She could feel it beating quickly, irregularly. She left his mouth to kiss his chin, then began working her tongue over his neck.

When the kiss was broken, he opened his eyes to see a man's shirt. He froze, not even breathing for a moment. His heart beat more furiously. He clenched his eyes shut so he would not have to see the top of Joe's head as he nipped at his neck.

"Relax," she whispered into his ear, then gently suckled the lobe.

"Relax," Chase heard Joe's voice, felt Joe's hands fumbling between his legs. _Relax? _The man was about to violate him and he had dared to tell him "relax"? His heart was beating impossibly fast.

Cameron felt Chase quivering beneath her. She blew lightly into his ear and purred, "Let me make love to you." He turned his head, allowing her to plant kisses along the length of his neck. His skin responded with goose bumps. She was careful to skim the surface, rather than using even the slightest force that might remind him of being strangled. She avoided the center of his neck so she would not apply pressure in a still healing area. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands freely over his bare chest.

They had had sex before. It had been frantic and lusty. This time was different. She wanted to meet his needs, not simply have hers met. She was determined to show him he was just as desirable as he had been the last time, even more so now that she knew him better. This time would be more than just sex. "You like?" she asked, tracing patterns over his stomach lightly with her fingers, teasing her way below the waist of his jeans as she straddled him. She did not remember him trembling this much before and she recalled that he had been more attentive to her. Aside from stroking her cheek, Chase had not touched her.

Suddenly, his entire body became rigid and she realized how shallow his breathing had become. She sat up and took in the sight of her would-be lover. His head was turned to the side. His eyes were clenched shut. His arms were by his sides and he was shaking slightly. "Chase?" she called to him, realizing he was not ready for this step. "My god, Chase, are you okay?" She turned his head to face forward and tapped on his cheek with two fingers. "Open your eyes, baby. Please. It's okay. Open your eyes."

Chase was lost in his memories of Joe declaring, "You're mine now."

Wracked with guilt, Cameron began to cry. Why had she thought this would be a good idea? She thought he was broken and she could help fix him. _Oh god, it's too soon_, she chided herself. "Chase, please look at me," she begged. She pulled his shirt back into place and began to button it with trembling hands. He had been too depressed a few hours ago to even shower or feed his cat. Why had she thought he would be ready for sex? He had trusted her and confided in her. Instead of just talking, she had tried to prove to him that he would be okay, only to confirm that--at the moment--he was anything but okay.

After getting his shirt back into place, Cameron laid down beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "Please be okay, Chase," she cried, tears slipping from her cheeks onto the soft cotton of his shirt. "I didn't mean to upset you," she said through shaky breaths before burying her face against his chest. "Please be okay."

_AN: Okay, don't kill me. I had no intention of going a Chase/Cameron route when I initially visualized this story. But it's got a life of its own. House has to control. Foreman wants to ignore. Cameron needs to fix. Chase wants to please them all. It just fits. Please review! Thanks!_


	25. Chapter 25

Chase opened his eyes, realizing he was in his own apartment on his own couch, with Cameron lying beside him crying softly. He panicked and sat up, "What happened?" he shook her slightly to get her attention.

"Chase?" she saw him looking at her with worry etched on his face. "Are you okay?"

He was unsure. "I don't know," he answered slowly. He tried to remember how they wound up like this. Something like an electrical shock surged through him as he remembered kissing Cameron. He moved to push the ghosts of Joe's hands away from his stomach, but realized it was only a memory he felt.

Cameron moved so that they could sit face to face. She observed his reaction, as if he was fighting a phantom. The body sometimes held memories the mind did not. She believed that was what Chase was experiencing at the moment.

He remembered that kissing Cameron had somehow become convoluted with the harrowing memories of what Joe had done to him. Her hands became his hands; her words triggered memories of his words. He felt sick at the thought. _How did I get so confused?_ Now Cameron had been crying and he had no idea why. "Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?" He took her forearm in his hand and rubbed it gently.

This only brought fresh tears for her. "No," she told him between ragged breaths. She could not shake away the image of him with his eyes shut, his head turned, shaking, his body locked in tension, and barely breathing. She wondered if he had been quivering in fear when the man attacked him and how anyone could see another person that terrified and still act on their despicable desires. She realized that Chase had been treated no better than an object by the two men who came into the clinic. They could not have had any grasp of him as a person and still been able to do whatever they did. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep from sobbing as she thought. She saw Chase's expressive blue eyes and the curve of his jaw and the full lips that could make her smile if they smiled. She saw his skillful hands that saved lives. _How could anyone willfully hurt you?_ she asked silently. And here he was, concerned that he had done something to hurt her. "_I_ hurt _you_," she admitted. "I didn't mean to, Chase."

"I don't really remember," Chase frowned, confused, trying to recall more about what had happened. "I went away, didn't I?" he asked. He realized the same sort of thing had happened when he felt threatened by Foreman. With Foreman, he was bombarded with memories. With Cameron, it was like time had stopped. He was not sure which was a worse reaction, but the idea that this behavior could become a pattern concerned him. How could he expect other people to respect him if he questioned his own competence?

"I think so," Cameron answered. When she first realized he was not being responsive, she thought he had only been afraid--of her, of sex. Knowing he was not ready for that step made her feel guilty. Then she realized he had shut down, unable to respond to her even when she stopped trying to seduce him. He had separated himself from the experience. Causing someone fear was bad. Causing someone so much terror that they resorted to a dissociative defense mechanism was even worse. She thought she should drop to her knees and beg his forgiveness, but wanted to put her own guilt aside long enough to make sure he was better.

"Oh god," Chase exclaimed, closing his eyes. "You wanted to… and I couldn't." He buried his face in both hands, hiding from her. "I'm sorry," he told her in a muffled voice. This only added to his shame.

"Don't be sorry. _I'm_ sorry. I'm an idiot." Cameron tried to tug his hands away from his face, but could not.

"Oh god," he groaned. He had never failed to perform for a woman before this.

"Chase, it's okay. You're just not ready yet. I should have known better. It's too soon."

He uncovered his face and looked at her. "Are you kidding? You're beautiful and you wanted to make love and I couldn't do it. I should have focused on you and all I could think about was another man. _A man_, Cameron! How can I have a beautiful woman kissing me and touching me and manage to see and hear and feel a damn man instead?" He slapped his open palms against his forehead in several quick motions. "I want it out of my head!"

Cameron grabbed his wrists, "Don't!" she ordered, though she was not too surprised by his actions. Colleen, her friend from college, had once banged her own head against a wall trying to make the memories stop. Her greater concern was this kind of self-injurious behavior sometimes precipitated suicide attempts. She loathed the idea of Foreman being right, especially when she was the reason Chase had gotten so upset. She was disgusted with herself. She had seen Colleen destroy herself. Why did she think that Chase would be receptive to sex? She wondered how she would feel if she had been raped and less than a month later Chase had his hands down her pants trying to seduce her. She would hate him.

"I want him out of my head," Chase sounded mournful and desperate.

"It will take time," Cameron told him, still holding onto his wrists. "Don't hurt yourself," she told him in a calm, low voice. "Stop." She pushed his arms down. "That's not going to help anything."

"I'm not going to hurt myself. I don't need a babysitter to keep me from slitting my wrists if that's what you and Foreman and House are worried about. I can't commit suicide. I can't become like my mother. I'm not going to let something bad make me hurt everyone around me. I'm not that selfish."

Cameron just kept her hold on his wrists, keeping his arms still while he talked. "Your mother committed suicide?" she gasped.

"Yes. No. I don't know. If she didn't, she may as well have," Chase answered, too emotional to engage his own censors. "It doesn't matter. I'm not like her. I'm not going to be like her, like either one of them."

"Of course it matters," Cameron told him. "Tell me what happened," she urged.

He had let the cat out of the bag now. There was no reason to not tell her. "Middle of Year 12, I found her dead in her bedroom. I was so sick of it, of her. I was tired of going straight home from school, cleaning up her vomit, wrestling bottles away from her, and sneaking around trying to pour out at least half of whatever she was drinking so I could water down the rest. I was tired of trying to make her eat something so she wouldn't pass out, only to have her throw up whatever I made for her. She had been in and out of treatment facilities, but it never worked. I was too young to have her committed. My father had nothing to do with her, with either of us. If I tried to do anything on my own, I would have been taken away and put in some state home or something then she wouldn't have had anyone."

Cameron wanted to ask why he would have been put in a shelter instead of being placed with his father, but did not want to interrupt him while he was being open about his past.

"I remember that day because I got to the front door and couldn't make myself go inside. She had just left some high priced detox center after two days. She went right back to her routine of drinking herself into oblivion and to hell with the rest of the world. I was tired of the sight of her, the smell of her. I was tired of her fighting against me when I was trying to help her. So I sat down outside and did my homework. I didn't think it mattered. What difference did it make if I cleaned her puke then or an hour later? At least I'd have my homework done early one night. I thought I would beat the system that way. Get the work done, then it wouldn't matter which mood she was in that day. Once I was done with her, I could actually rest. I was _tired._ So, do you know what difference an hour makes, Cameron?"

Cameron felt sympathetic tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head.

"Death." He shrugged one shoulder absently. "She was still warm. If I'd just gone inside, maybe I could have saved her. Dad made me learn CPR when I was twelve. I tried to get her to breathe again, but when the ambulance got there, the paramedics pulled me away and told me to stop--I was wasting my time. One of them patted me on the shoulder and said, _You did all you could do, son_." He imitated the man's voice and gave a half-hearted laugh. "Except unlocking the damn door and checking to see if she was still alive. I did it every other day, but not that day."

"Chase, you couldn't have known," Cameron told him.

"You don't get it, do you?" Chase asked softly. "I did know. I always knew. Every day could have been _the day_, the day I came home and found her close to death's door. Even though she never finished a rehab program, she would be better for a few days. She'd drink a little less, not break as many things, maybe not get sick on her bed or the carpet. I thought a had a respite. I thought, _Today will be a good day. She'll be drunk, but I'll be able to get her to take a bath and eat a sandwich. Then I'm going to bed. _That's how selfish I was. She died because I wanted to take a nap, because I was too caught up in me to go in and take care of her like I was supposed to, because I broke the routine."

Cameron shook her head, saddened by what he was saying and shocked that he was saying it at all. "You did the best you could." She echoed the paramedic's words. She wondered if that constituted a _good_ day, exactly what was a _bad_ day? Though she had an entirely new understanding of why Chase resented his father so much.

"You know what I wonder sometimes--if she was hoping that it would _look_ like a suicide attempt so that she could be committed so that she wouldn't have the option to leave the hospital on her own. You know how they say women are often making a _cry for help _if they try to kill themselves. I couldn't force her to stay, but maybe she wanted _someone_ to force her to stay in treatment. Maybe she didn't mean to kill herself. Maybe she wanted to get better and I didn't play my part right. I let her lay there and die so I could finish my calculus homework."

She rubbed his hand softly. "You can't beat yourself up about that. You just can't."

"I don't… much… anymore," he told her. "I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that when I say I wouldn't kill myself, I mean it. Cameron, this, this… being raped… it's not the worst thing that I've ever had to deal with. I think it's harder to watch someone you love suffer than it is to be the one suffering. It's worse to be powerless to help someone you love than it is to be powerless to help yourself." He touched her face lightly, brushing away tears. "But you know that, don't you? You went through it with your husband."

She nodded as her throat tightened, fighting back a sob. "I had no idea you knew what it was like to watch someone you love die."

Chase pulled her to him in a hug. There was no need to speak. He patted her back, offering her comfort.

She thought about what he said, how it was harder to watch someone else suffer. It pained her to watch him suffer this way. She wanted to tell him that, but could not quite find the right way to say it. She pulled away after a few moments. "I'm so sorry," she started. "I should have known you weren't ready."

"Let it go," he whispered. "Please, can we not talk about that?"

"Don't be embarrassed," she tried to console him.

"You're talking about it," he replied, inconsolable.

"Chase, I understand. I don't think you're--"

He put his fingers in his ears, closed his eyes, and sang loudly, "La la, la, la."

She sighed. Chase ventured to open one eye and saw her sitting quietly. He smiled. She smiled. They both started to laugh.

"How can you go from pouring your heart out to being such a goof?" she asked, realizing her tears had subsided.

"I'm just special that way," he joked.

"You're special, all right," she said, picking up a forgotten throw pillow from the floor and whacking his arm with it.

He grabbed the pillow, but she held on tight. They tussled with it and each other until they fell in a tangled heap onto the floor.

Cameron was pinned under Chase, but he quickly got to his feet and offered her a hand to help her stand.

"Oww," she whined. "I landed right on my ass. Your floor is too hard."

"I guess we should go back to House's," Chase told her. "I want to pick up a few things. He's going to get tired of me having so much stuff. I need my own jacket though. I'm going to get a few things out of my closet. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Cameron noted that he did not invite her to come into his bedroom with him. She sat idly on the couch until he returned, carrying a small navy blue duffle bag.

"I should probably be moving stuff back here instead of taking more stuff there," he said.

"But, they haven't caught those men yet and they know where you live," Cameron argued.

"They'll never be caught," Chase told her, disheartened. He had been forced to make a formal statement that would never be used, but would be forever on record. His case was not a priority. Rapists were all too elusive, no matter what gender the victim or how much news the crime generated.

"But they've been here," Cameron reminded him. The idea of him being here alone scared her.

"So, I'm not supposed to ever move back home?" he asked. "I can't very well stay with House forever. I don't want to stay with House forever. I'm not sure why I'm staying with House now," he said. He knew that last statement was a lie though. He was still with House because he was not nearly as close to being healed as he would have liked any of them to believe. He knew it and House knew it too. "I'm going to get a couple of books," he said to change the subject.

Cameron followed him to the spare bedroom that served as his office.

"I wish I could take my guitar," Chase said wistfully, running a hand over the smooth surface of the custom-designed Maton. He had spent a small fortune having it made to his unique specifications. He had seen House's guitars and thought House might actually like to see this one. He would even consider letting House play a song or two on it. He regretted leaving it out of it's case the last time he played. It had, undoubtedly, had dust settle inside while he was away.

"How long have you played?" Cameron asked. She started to say, "I didn't know you played," but that would have been a lie since she had found out by walking into this room not too long ago.

"I guess since I was about twelve or so," he shrugged. "I'm so out of practice," he lamented. "I think I'm going to take the guitar and leave my clothes," he decided. "Letting House see it" was as good of a justification as he needed to take it with him. He picked up the instrument, wiped it down with a dusting cloth that he kept handy for just that purpose, and put it back in the case where it should have been, vowing to never leave it out again.

Cameron laughed. _Men and their toys_, she thought, rolling her eyes. She glanced at the computer and wanted to ask Chase about the article he was writing and exactly why he wrote with a pseudonym. But then he would know that she had snooped through his papers in the first place and that might be a sore subject.

He looked through his bookshelf and took two books down. One was called _Heaven_. The other was _Freakonomics_.

"You still read theological stuff?" Cameron asked, noting the first book.

"Yeah. It's interesting," he said, not volunteering any more information. He knew she was a self-proclaimed atheist and he did not want to have to justify his own weird belief system. He sighed without realizing it. _Faith shouldn't be so hard_, he thought. What Cameron had not noticed was that _Heaven_ was the book on the shelf next to _When Bad Things Happen to Good People_. That was the one he wanted to take, but he did not want her to know that he wanted it. He was not sure why he did not want her to see him pick that book. He supposed he was not quite sure that she considered him "good people."

Cameron took the guitar case. "I'll carry this. You get the duffle bag," she said.

Chase had a momentary urge to protect his guitar from someone else touching it, but let it go. It was not her fault that she did not understand the bond between a man and his six-string. "Thanks," he said. "If you're still not in a hurry, I should probably go by the market and pick up a few things to cook tonight. Maybe you could stay for dinner," he offered. "Wilson comes by a few nights a week. I don't think they'd mind if you joined us."

"Oh, I better not impose," Cameron answered. She was afraid House would somehow see right through them and realize that she had tried to seduce Chase. He would never let her live that down if he ever found out.

"Oh, okay," Chase said. He sounded disappointed. "In that case, let's just go back to House's. I'll order something. I actually have some money now so I can buy their food for a change." He put the books in his bag before they left his apartment.

"You want to pick up something on the way back?" Cameron asked. Chase cringed when she let the guitar case bump the coffee table as she walked past it.

"Yeah, that would be good," he said as he locked his door. "Thanks for today. I had a nice time."

"I'm sorry--"

"La, la, la," Chase interrupted as the door to the elevator closed.


	26. Chapter 26

_January 31_

Sometimes she wanted to throw things. It could have been the nameplate block on her desk that said "Dr. Lisa Cuddy Dean of Medicine" or the blown glass paperweight of swirled colors that her aunt gave her when she graduated from college, or even just a pencil. But, there were days that she wanted to shut the door, close the blinds, and vent her disgruntlement by flinging objects across the room.

This was one of those days. Cuddy poured over Chase's medical records and sighed in frustration. She had practically wrestled the file from House after Foreman had come to her with his concerns.

"Dr. Cuddy, a moment?" He started, opening her office door. Despite House's assertion to the contrary, Foreman was not convinced that Chase was not suicidal. He had tried to accept House's word, but the image of Chase huddled on the bathroom floor plagued him as he tried to get to sleep the night before. He decided to see Cuddy first thing when he got to work to convey his worries to someone with more authority than House.

She looked up from the budget she was studying. "Sure, what can I do for you?" she asked.

Foreman closed the door behind him and approached her desk. He kept his voice low. "Have you talked with House about Chase?"

She admitted to herself that it might have been easier for her to hear that House had destroyed another MRI than to broach this subject. "Is there something I need to know?" She hated to see him sit down in the chair in front of her desk. It meant he had more than a few words to say. He planned to get comfortable and stay a while.

"He needs counseling," Foreman told her, sounding sure of himself.

"He'll get counseling as soon as he's well enough," she responded. "The last I checked with House, he was just starting to get his voice back."

"He's well enough physically," Foreman claimed. "Not doing so well mentally." He shook his head sadly.

"Why would you say that?" She moved the budget to the side of her desk and reached for the small spiral notebook she sometimes used to make conversation notes. She did not want to hear this. She wanted Chase to take six weeks off work and come back ready to do his job. She dreaded having to confront him about his mental status. He had been hurt enough without having his ability to work competently questioned.

At the same time, she could not risk the quality of patient care if Chase was not mentally ready to work again. If that turned out to be the case, the hospital would be liable for his mental disability. It would either cost them a huge monetary settlement or cost them one of their most highly qualified doctors. Frankly, the idea of losing an intensivist who had survived nearly four years working with House bothered her more than the idea of paying out a few million dollars. Chase was a good doctor, though his confidence had somehow been beaten out of him long ago, if it had ever been there at all. He was a stark contrast to the arrogant prick she had been expecting before she met him. The famous Rowan Chase, himself known as quite an arrogant bastard, had a son who flew through the accelerated programs and managed to start his second fellowship earlier than many students would have started their first. She had expected a shortlived showdown of egos between the new kid and House. Since no doctor with the last name Chase would have to put himself through the torment of working with House, she had predicted he would not last two weeks.

Foreman was conflicted. "I really don't feel right telling you any details." He knew he had seen Chase during some of the worst moments of his life. If their roles were reversed, he would not want Chase to share the details with anyone, not even in the name of helping him.

"But you're here anyway," Cuddy reminded him. She did not have time to waste on a fishing expedition for information. "So tell me what you have to tell me." She decided to throw him a bone of justification. "I was one of his attending physicians immediately after the attack. House is his official attending. You're on House's team. House is on _my_ team. Forget that we're talking about Chase and discuss him like he's any other patient."

Foreman still questioned the ethics of discussing a _patient's_ status when that _patient_ was not presently hospitalized.

"Dr. Foreman, I believe that you've missed your follow up counseling appointments. Should I question your mental competence too?" Cuddy asked when Foreman deliberated telling her what she needed to know for longer than she approved.

He narrowed his eyes, clearly angered by her question. "I wasn't raped and almost murdered by psychos who got past hospital security with a gun," he reminded her. "I'm doing fine."

Cuddy took the jab at hospital security as the personal barb it was meant to be, but she never let her face give away her internal reaction.

"I went to see him the day before yesterday," Foreman started. "We were talking. I raised my voice. He freaked out."

Deciding to not interrogate him about why he had raised his voice to someone recovering from intense trauma, she asked, "Can you quantify _freaked out_?"

"He…" Foreman realized how bad it made him look when he told the essential details. "He shielded himself, like he thought I was going to hit him or something. He ran from me into the bathroom, got sick, then cowered in the corner crying his eyes out for quite a while. He was somewhere else entirely. After he calmed down--thanks to his cat--we talked a little bit and he told me he had just remembered what happened in the clinic. He had repressed it, I guess."

"I agree he needs counseling, but that kind of flashback is not truly uncommon after extreme trauma," Cuddy started to explain, but Foreman interrupted.

"Then he told me that I was not actually there when it happened; that as far as I was concerned, he was on vacation snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef; and that he would tell me about his pretend vacation when he came back to work, complete with leaving out the details so he wouldn't offend me because my father was not rich. He also informed me that if there was a competition between our fathers, that my father would win. He said his father would be disgusted with him. And, in his own words, pardon me for quoting, he's _so fucked up_."

Cuddy considered Foreman's tale. It certainly seemed worse the more he talked. "He had just had a flashback," she reasoned softly. "He wasn't thinking clearly. I think you're making it more than it is." She felt like she had violated Chase further by having this conversation with Foreman. Chase would never have wanted anyone to know the details of that visit.

"I think he's suicidal. I told House and--"

"He disagreed," Cuddy supplied with some relief. House was a far better judge of people than Foreman had ever been.

"Obviously. That's why I'm here. Someone has to do something before he slits his own wrists or overdoses on the dozen medications he's left alone with every day. House's vicodin stash alone could get him into trouble."

"Did he say he wanted to die?"

"No," Foreman answered, agitated that House and now Cuddy both seemed so eager to dismiss his concerns.

"Did he try to hurt himself while you were there? Did you have to restrain him?"

"No."

"Then why do you think a flashback and the inevitable confusion that followed would lead him to something so drastic?"

"He was held at gunpoint, strangled, and sexually assaulted," Foreman told her incredulously. "He has to face that every day. He's not safe in his own home because the sickos who attacked him know where he lived and threatened to attack him again. He's relying on someone else for shelter. He probably feels like an imposition. He knows that everyone who works at this hospital has worked out what happened to him even if no one is really allowed to mention it. What does he have to come back to here? His job is the most important thing in his life and he thinks that no one will respect him because of what happened to him. Why do you think he would _not_ want to kill himself?" Foreman believed the wrong question was being asked. It was not _if_ Chase was suicidal, but how to deal with it.

"Dalliance with the priesthood for starters," Cuddy answered. "I mean, I'm no Catholic, but if someone considers becoming a priest, it would seem they take the teachings seriously; and the Church does frown on suicide, doesn't it?" She wondered how much of Foreman's assertions about Chase's thoughts about coming back to PPTH reflected his own feelings at the moment. After all, Foreman had also been helpless and at the mercy of deranged strangers even if he had not been physically attacked.

"When he was a teenager, he considered being a priest. He got over it. It's not as if he's living all the other teachings. I grew up Baptist, but I'm fairly sure the Catholics frown on premarital sex too. That's not stopping him. And there are abortions, which I'm sure he's had to perform at some point in his career whether he wanted to or not. I don't think he eats fish every Friday either."

"That one's not Scriptural, is it?" she asked, but did not allow him to answer. "Whatever. We're not going to debate religion and medicine. House knows Chase far better than you or I do. Chase is living in his home at the moment. If House doesn't believe he's suicidal, I don't believe it either."

"If House believed Martians had invaded the ER, you would believe it too." Foreman retorted.

"Dr. Foreman, that is enough," Cuddy snapped. "I will look into having Chase come in to see Dr. Johnson, but I will not be insulted by you. Your subversion is just another blot on your record. I've had as many complaints about your behavior toward colleagues in the past three weeks than I have about House in the past three years. You just admitted to me that you threatened a traumatized patient. At this point, I'm questioning _your _ability to deal with both patients and staff. You, too, are to begin keeping regular appointments with Dr. Johnson until he is satisfied your issues will not interfere with your work."

Foreman was horrorstruck. "I did not threaten Chase." He felt that clearing that misconception was the most important place to start refuting her.

"You raised your voice. You know better than anyone what he went through, but you could not control yourself around him. If you can't control yourself around _him_, how can I expect you to control yourself with the nurse assigned to work with you when you're doing an MRI? How I can I expect you to treat your patients with compassion if you can't treat your colleague who has been through hell with compassion? How can I expect you to work with Chase efficiently when he comes back from medical leave if you can't have a civil visit with him? You were assigned psychotherapy immediately after the attack and you have kept only one appointment. I expect you to follow through with treatment so that you can do your job without interference from your personal issues."

Foreman was dumbfounded. Sure, he had been snippy with nurses, lab techs, janitorial staff, other doctors, and even a patient or two. But House was the same way constantly. How did House manage to get away with it while he was reprimanded?

"I'm not suspending your treatment privileges yet, but if I continue to get complaints about your behavior, that will be the next step. Dr. Foreman, I truly sympathize with what you've gone through. I hoped that your attitude would work itself out, but so far it has not improved."

"I'm being compassionate toward Chase right now," Foreman told her, keeping his voice calm. He was barely comforted by the fact that his treatment privileges were not being suspended. "I'm trying to make sure he gets the help he needs so he won't come back to work and wind up making a mistake that kills someone because he can't walk into the clinic without having a flashback."

"I appreciate your candor, Dr. Foreman. Dr. Chase will get the help he needs."

"I can't believe you're punishing me." Foreman shook his head. He knew there was little point in arguing.

"I'm not punishing you. I'm following through on the concerns and complaints of other staff members just as I will follow through on your concerns."

Foreman started to say something, but Cuddy did not allow him to finish.

"You're dismissed," she said curtly. "Dr. Johnson's secretary will call you to set up an appointment. Keep it."

After Foreman left in a huff, she had gone to House to retrieve the sacred file. House had done some strange things in his years working for her, but this was the first file he had consistently hidden. She understood why he did so--refusing to let Cameron and Foreman see it at work; refusing to let Chase dwell on it at home.

He had fought her until she truly pulled rank on him, increasing his clinic duty in increments until he gave in after she reminded him that she had been there for the worst of it anyway. The assault details were nothing new to her since she had taken the photographs and compiled the CD that was part of the sealed records.

So now she poured over the file again. Seeing her own notes reminded her of how she came in early the first few mornings after the attack to check on Chase while he was still sedated. For the first week, the sight of his bruised neck had haunted her all her waking hours. The mangled black and purple splotches stood out vividly against his pale skin, light hair, and the white sheets surrounding him. The fingertip bruises on his face and the bite marks that peaked from underneath the loose collar of his gown made her stomach churn. The worst part for her was knowing that those were just peaks of the injuries he had sustained. Her heart ached every time she thought of the initial exam he had endured and she only hoped that he would mercifully be able to forget the details that she could not. How had this happened in her hospital, to one of her people?

She would check his vitals, push aside the hair that had inevitably fallen over his eyes, and then smooth the covers over him. She held the hand of whichever arm was not hosting the IV, stroked his arm softly like she had done after the attack, and promised him that he would be alright. She would vow that something like this would never happen again and express her sorrow that it had happened to him. She never had any reason to believe that he heard her, but she was consoling herself with the visits. Keeping it fresh in her mind would spur her to action. She wanted to keep the human element in her thoughts so she could passionately express the security needs to the board. They may not see Chase's battered form or ever truly know the horror he had gone through, but she would make sure they knew that nothing like this could happen again and it was their duty to ensure that everything that could be done to achieve that end was implemented.

She had to admit that Foreman was partially right. It was time for Chase to begin his psychological treatment. The most recent entries from House denoted his assessment of Chase's recovering voice. Perhaps the part of her that wanted to protect him from further pain had convinced her that he would come in when the time was right, but she knew that was not true. House, arguably the most influential person in Chase's life, was no great supporter of psychiatry. Chase probably wanted to avoid the hospital. It would be frightening for him to come back to the place where he had been assaulted and humiliating to walk into a building where he knew that almost everyone knew who he was and what had happened to him. But it had to start somewhere. She took the file in her hand and headed back to the Diagnostics Department.

To her surprise, House and the team had taken a case. There were symptoms on the board and the three were tossing about potential causes.

"House, I need to see you." She held up the file so he would know what she wanted to see him about.

House gave a scathing look toward Foreman and said, "He's _not_ suicidal."

Cuddy frowned. So much for trying to keep Foreman and Cameron out of this.

"You went to Cuddy?" Cameron asked Foreman accusingly. She looked disgusted.

"Someone had to," he shrugged, biting his tongue so that he would not say something rude. He would save it for when Cuddy was not there.

"He's not going to kill himself," Cameron asserted. "I know he won't."

"You haven't seen him as upset as I did," Foreman argued.

"Yes I have," Cameron bit back. She then realized what she had revealed and softly said, "Oh," while covering her mouth with her hand.

"Wait a minute…" House interrupted. "Chase said the two of you had a nice time yesterday. You told me he did CPR on that guy that went into cardiac arrest at the Japanese place and was behaving like a perfectly competent physician. Now you're saying he was upset yesterday?"

"Man, someone else needed his help at a restaurant?" Foreman asked. "He's the unluckiest bastard I know."

"Wait. Chase saved someone else's life in an emergency? Why haven't I been informed of this?" Cuddy asked. "What happened?"

"We went to a hibachi grill for lunch and an older gentleman went into cardiac arrest. Chase jumped right into action, asked patrons for aspirin, had the common sense to know that I could find the address of the restaurant on the menu, and started CPR. He helped the EMT's when they arrived too," Cameron explained.

"He was clear-headed, then? No hesitation?"

"None at all. Afterwards, he said he was going to stop going to restaurants, but I told him he did everything right. He realized he didn't think about those men at all while the man needed him."

"Well, that's wonderful!" Cuddy exclaimed. "He didn't let it interfere with his actions."

"Yeah, yeah. Chase saves random people in restaurants all the time," House said. "What did you do to upset him?" he asked Cameron pointedly.

"I didn't say it was yesterday," Cameron shrugged, back-peddling on her admission. "Dr. Cuddy, Chase really did not hesitate at all. He was perfectly competent and acted according to what was needed."

"We get it. Chase is brilliant," House interrupted. "Back to the subject at hand, when else would you have seen him very upset? He didn't have any breakdowns while he was still hospitalized. We had him on far too many happy pills. What the hell happened? The _truth_."

Cuddy looked scandalized. This was the best news she had had in three weeks, but House cared more about satisfying his curiosity than about the competence of his employee.

"It's none of your business," Cameron declared. But the pink glow rising in her cheeks did nothing to quell House's curiosity.

He narrowed his eyes, "Where did you go after lunch?"

"Back to his apartment. You know that. He wanted a jacket of his own and his guitar, remember?"

"What did you do?" he prodded.

"We talked," Cameron answered in a huff.

"Then why did he get so upset?"

"I didn't say it was yesterday," she repeated.

"You're lying."

Cameron sighed. "He's not suicidal. I'm going to run an ANA." She started to leave the office, but House blocked the door.

"What did you do to upset him?"

"We talked," Cameron maintained. "We talked about some personal things. I know he's not suicidal."

"Did he freak out or zone out on you?" Foreman asked. "That's what had me worried."

"He was upset about some of the things we talked about," Cameron answered. "It's none of _your_ business." She felt hot and wondered if her cheeks were betraying her embarrassment. "But he's not going to kill himself." She turned back to Foreman as she stressed the last part.

"You seduced him, didn't you?" House guessed, moving between her and Foreman to intimidate her. She was getting hot and flustered and wanted to escape.

Cuddy and Foreman both were shocked by the accusation.

"No!" she exclaimed. "You think I would steal him away from your apartment just to sleep with him?"

"I think you like to fix broken things," House told her. "And you're all hot and bothered just thinking about it." He sized her up again. "But you're not too pleased with yourself, so I'm thinking he wasn't going for it. You moron."

"You're disgusting!" Cameron exclaimed. She hated him for hurling these very accurate accusations her way in front of Cuddy and Foreman.

"You're not denying it."

"We did not have sex!" she raised her voice. She was fortunate to not be facing the door or she would have seen two nurses stop and look her way, obviously having heard her through the glass. She lowered her voice again. "Clear enough?"

"But you wanted to," House declared. "I swear, I'm not letting either of you come over to play anymore." He gave both of his fellows a reproving glare.

"He thinks his mother killed herself," Cameron blurted out, dropping the one bomb that would get pressure off of her about the actions that she did not want anyone to know about.

Cuddy and Foreman both looked surprised by this revelation. House did not seem moved.

"Why?" Foreman asked. "I know she died young. I thought she had cancer. He's never told me exactly what killed her, just _prolonged illness, and I don't want to talk about it_."

"Crap," Cuddy said the first thing that came to her. Chase was going through a crisis and had an example of suicide in his own family. That could lend more credence to Foreman's concerns.

"He doesn't _know_ that she killed herself, but he suspects it," Cameron clarified. "He found her dead, but there was no note."

"But what was wrong with her?" Foreman asked. "Maybe she died of natural causes. Wasn't there an autopsy?"

"Raging alcoholic," House supplied. "Drank herself to death. Hard to say if she meant to or not." He stared at Cameron harshly. "And if he told you that, I don't think he meant for you to share it with the class."

Cameron felt as if House had just slapped her. "You're the one who won't stop pushing for answers," she reminded him. "You want to know what had him upset? That was it. He knew we were concerned about him committing suicide and he told me why he never would. Of course it upset him to talk about not knowing whether she meant to kill herself or not."

"Why does that make you think Chase wouldn't hurt himself?" Cuddy asked. She cared more about what Cameron could reveal about Chase's emotional status than she did about House's arguments, though she suspected that Chase would not appreciate having sensitive information he revealed in confidence bandied about among his colleagues.

"He said he'd never be that selfish. He said that being raped was not the worst thing he'd ever been through. I think he believes that since he got through the years with his mother, he can get through this without having to resort to a selfish and cowardly way out."

Foreman shook his head in disbelief. "Maybe I'm wrong," he shrugged. "I had no idea his mom was a drunk."

"Chase is stronger than any of you give him credit for being," House told them. "His dad walked out. He handled her and her problems by himself until she died. I don't know how badly she mistreated him, but I've never known an alcoholic who treated their children well. If he can get through years of dealing with her _alone_, he can get through this so long as the two of you stop messing with his head. Please. Leave it to the professionals."

"Speaking of which," Cuddy latched onto the opening House had given her, "He's got to start counseling immediately." She was astonished that House was advocating human support. "He should come back to work in a few weeks. I want him to see Dr. Johnson no less than twice a week for the next six weeks. If Dr. Johnson wants to see him three times a week or every day, then that's what he'll do. House, do you want to tell him, or should I?"

"Draw straws?" House suggested with a shrug.


	27. Chapter 27

"Okay," Chase shrugged.

"Okay? That's it?" House asked, flabbergasted. "No screaming? No crying? No rending of garments? No digging your fingernails into the sidewalk and making me drag you to the hospital?" He had expected Chase to put up a bit more of a fight when he told him that Cuddy expected him to start seeing Dr. Johnson the next day. He even had Wilson there for backup support. "Ninety minutes a day with that quack Johnson at least twice a week," House reminded him. "That's three hours a week, more if Johnson demands it."

"I can do the math," Chase replied. He set a bowl full of green beans on the table. "I know I have to have counseling before I can go back to work. Might as well start tomorrow."

House and Wilson exchanged looks that said, _That was too easy_. But neither were going to make an issue of it.

"Why do you always cook crap like baked chicken covered in broccoli?" House asked, taking the lid off a casserole dish. "Don't you ever fry anything?"

"No," Chase answered. "And you haven't failed to eat anything I've put on the table yet."

Wilson looked up warily. Chase had just sounded astonishingly like his third wife.

"Don't you ever want something a little less balanced?" House asked.

"Like me?" Chase mumbled. He said more clearly, "It's covered in Ritz crackers and melted cheese. Don't worry. I'm not sneaking in vitamins."

"I'm sure it will be delicious," Wilson commented in his ever-the-mediator way. He had just traded some kind of secret communication with House about Chase calling himself unbalanced.

"But it would be better fried," House complained, ignoring the look Wilson had given him. He liked having a normal conversation with Chase. Part of the problem with Wilson and everyone else is that they wanted to investigate every little thing Chase said. He thought that perhaps Chase needed a little less confrontation with his own feelings. He would be getting plenty of that for the next six weeks, at least.

"Fried broccoli?" Chase scoffed.

"I'm sure they fry broccoli in the South. If they can fry turkeys and Twinkies, they can fry broccoli."

"That's disgusting," Wilson commented. "And stop picking out all the cracker crumbs."

"Have you talked to Cameron today?" House asked, pushing the casserole dish back to the center of the table.

"Should I have?" Chase avoided answering as he spooned some green beans onto his plate.

"I just figured," House said nonchalantly. "You know, after yesterday and all."

A dozen thoughts about the details of the day before hit Chase at once. He did not want House to know any of them.

House watched the puzzled panic flash across Chase's face. He knew he had hit some sore spot and his need to know all the answers kicked into gear. "You know Cameron," he waved his fork which was holding a small piece of chicken over his plate. "Always trying to make sure things are okay." It was a very general statement. He shoved the chicken into his mouth and talked around it. "Figured she'd call or come by to check on you."

"She _told_ you?" Chase asked, horrorstruck. It was almost as bad that House was talking about it in front of Wilson. "Did she tell _you_ too?" he asked the oncologist.

"Uh," Wilson sputtered, distracted from his broccoli. He had gotten the lion's share of the vegetable since House had tried to avoid most of it. He actually had no idea what they were discussing.

"Unbelievable," Chase seethed, suddenly very angry. He could not tell if Cameron had told Wilson or if House had, but he was sure Wilson knew. It probably explained why he had given that funny look earlier. Either way, he was getting angrier by the second. "I can't believe she told you," he said.

"Well, you know, Foreman was all _Chase is suicidal _and Cuddy was all, _Cameron, what do you think?_" He did a poor imitation of Foreman and a worse one of Cuddy.

"She told Cuddy and Foreman too?" Chase raised his voice. "How could she be so… so… such a…?" He felt like saying _backstabbing bitch_, but kept it to himself. Instead he made sort of a frustrated growling noise.

Both House and Wilson were taken aback. Neither had seen Chase this angry before.

"I guess you think it's right funny, don't you?" Chase bit at House.

"Funny?" House repeated. "Why the hell would I think it's funny?"

"I can't believe she told you!" Chase shook his head, wishing it were not true.

"Nobody is going to--"

"It's nobody else's damn business," Chase interrupted House. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn _her_." He refrained from slamming a fist into the table because he did not want appear more unhinged than he really was.

"Calm down," House told him, concerned that Chase was on the verge of a meltdown worthy of Foreman's presence. "She was just trying to help."

"Yeah, trying to get me into the sack not even a month after I was raped is really _help_ful." He had told himself that Cameron's heart was in the right place, even if her actions had been thoughtless. He did not want to be angry with her, but now he felt completely betrayed. "How dare she tell you that I couldn't--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" It was House's turn to interrupt. An evil part of him was pleased to know he was right about Cameron trying to seduce Chase, but he also considered that Chase might need to know that Cameron had denied it. Then again, given how angry he was, it could be better for them all if Chase had no idea that House had suspected a seduction in the first place. "She didn't tell us _any _of that."

Chase was not sure if blood was rushing from his face or to it. He felt slightly lightheaded. "Oh," he said softly, reminding House very much of Cameron's reaction earlier when she realized she had said too much about the day before.

Wilson wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He focused on the chicken on his plate. He knew far more about Chase's problems than he had ever hoped. House kept roping him into dinners because he knew he was incompetent when it came to handling highly emotional people. Wilson thought the whole situation was like a strange dream. House was being as compassionate as his hardened nature could manage. He was still stunned that House had insisted that Chase move in with him.

"Well," Chase said slowly, trying to think of something appropriate to say. Exactly what was the protocol for a conversation with the boss about impotence? "This is embarrassing," he admitted.

"No kidding," House agreed. It was not nearly as much fun for Chase to admit the truth to him as it had been to try to needle the truth out of Cameron. He could not very well tease Chase about his performance problem given the circumstances.

"It's _not _a pattern," Chase said defensively.

"You don't have to explain anything to me," House said.

"Just so you know."

"I don't need to know." He started buttering a fresh roll, forgetting the half-eaten one on his plate.

"I _really_ don' t need to know," Wilson added.

Chase looked down at his nearly empty plate. He never had bothered to get any chicken.

They sat quietly for a few moments. The only sound was Wilson's fork hitting his plate as he tried to avoid the conversation. House stopped slathering the roll with gobs of butter and returned to his meal as well.

Eventually Wilson felt sorry for Chase who was staring at his green beans. He wondered if, as a child, Chase had always gotten so sullen and refused to eat when he was upset. "Chase, it happens to everyone," he offered. "Haven't you ever gotten so pissing drunk you couldn't follow through?"

"No," Chase answered firmly. "I've never been _that_ drunk."

"Seriously?" Wilson asked. "I thought everyone got that drunk at least once."

"Not my idea of a good time," Chase answered coolly.

"Well, still, you know, it happens." He reached for a second roll.

"Before you're thirty _and_ while you're sober?" Chase asked. He did feel better since Wilson had basically just admitted that he had had problems before.

"You're a doctor," Wilson reminded him. It was not unheard of. "You're still taking a lot of medications and there are psychogenic factors to consider. It's not necessarily physical."

"Oh, please, of course it's not physical," House added. "It's Cameron for Pete's sake. That's got to be like doing a block of ice. A condescending, annoying, I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself, caring until you want to dunk her head in a toilet an flush it, block of ice."

"It's not that bad," Chase smirked, though he was trying stop himself.

"Oh, right, you've done her before," House shivered as he reminded himself aloud. "Don't worry, Grasshopper. You'll do her again."

"Grasshopper?" Chase repeated.

"_Kung Fu_," House answered. "Haven't you ever seen _Kung Fu_?"

Chase shook his head.

"Wilson, we've got to go to Blockbuster," House announced. "This deprived child has never seen _Kung Fu_. Didn't they have televisions when you were growing up in England?"

"Great. That'll give us something to do tomorrow night," Wilson said. Going home with House was becoming an almost comfortable ritual. He would never have told Chase, but he was starting to believe that having Chase around was good for House, at least for the time being. He doubted it could last very long.

Chase decided to get a very small portion of the chicken that he had cooked just to see if he could swallow it without pain and was disappointed that House and Wilson had claimed most of the cracker crumbs for themselves. There was plenty of broccoli left though. Maybe House was right about the less balanced meals. His plate looked awfully green. He replayed the dinner conversation in his mind while they discussed someone named Caine. Eventually he spoke up again. "So, what did she tell you then?" he asked sheepishly. House had implied that she would be concerned and that she had told them all something personal.

House swallowed another bite of chicken and washed it down with some water. "She told us you wouldn't commit suicide because you believe your mother did. And it really sucked for you to find her dead."

Wilson looked up from his meal, surprised to say the least. Sometimes he thought this would be easier on him if House told him important tidbits of information as they went along. Mama Chase's offing herself was probably important. He wondered how young Chase had been when he found the body. That was worth a few years in counseling itself.

Chase opened his mouth, but House would not let him speak.

"Before you blow another gasket, we had to drag that out of her." He embellished a little bit. He realized now that Cameron had revealed the information about Chase's mother to get the magnifying glass off her own actions. "She kept saying she knew you wouldn't commit suicide and none of us would take her word for it until she said why."

"Great. I didn't think she'd tell everyone," he grumbled. He felt betrayed again. He had let Cameron into a part of his past that he did not discuss. He had never told his father or any friends back home. He had told only one priest during a confessional and another when he was considering going into the priesthood himself.

"It's probably better for you that she did," House offered. "At least Cuddy has less of a reason to think you've gone off the deep end."

"Am I that pathetic?" Chase asked. "You guys really sit around discussing whether or not I'm going to blow my brains out?"

"Pretty much," House answered. He shoved more bread into his mouth. "But most of us were standing."

"They're just worried," Wilson told him. It seemed kinder than House confirming that they all thought he was pathetic. "Anyone who's been through what you have--"

Chase squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, "I don't want to talk about it."

Wilson did not finish his sentence. Unlike Joe, he could take _no_ for an answer. He would not force the subject.

"Then tomorrow ought to be blast," House said. "You and Johnson in a staring contest. My money's on you. Johnson's an extrovert. You'll drive him nuts if you sit there in silence for an hour and a half. I'll give you twenty bucks if you can make him cry."

Chase's cell phone started ringing. He left the table to get it from the counter. "It's Cameron," he said aloud.

"Take it," House said. "You going to eat that?" he asked, pointing to Chase's plate as he walked past.

He shook his head "no" as he answered the phone with a polite, "Hello."

House watched him head toward the back of the apartment, guessing he was going to the bathroom so he could shut the door and talk privately.

"Damn, I needed to pee," Wilson said, also realizing Chase was going to be in the bathroom for however long it took to talk to Cameron.

"Back yard's free."

"Very funny."

"Did you notice what Chase said?" House asked Wilson.

"That he's managed to make it thirty years without having problems with limpy?"

"Not funny," House said, taking the nickname as a personal affront.

"Sorry."

"No, he said he was raped."

Wilson looked confused. He was unsure of how to respond or what significance House was seeing that he could not.

"He said _raped_," House clarified. "He's never used the word before. He's always used something less specific like _hurt_."

Wilson still looked as if he did not get what House was trying to convey.

"Don't you get how huge that is?" House asked. "He's come to call it what it is _on his own_. He didn't need that idiot Johnson to coach him into it. That's progress."

"It's just a word," Wilson argued, though he remembered House had used the word freely when Chase had been so upset by a nightmare.

"You're an idiot." House frowned. "If he can say he was raped, he can start to see that it wasn't his fault, that it was something done to him instead of something he could control."

"That's so New Age," Wilson laughed. "Sounds like you could get your next specialty in psychiatry."

House sighed. "It means Chase is getting better."

"I don't think he'll ever be the same," Wilson lamented.

"He doesn't have to be the same to be okay. He's going to be just fine."

_AN: Thanks for the continued support and comments! I appreciate all the feedback. :)_


	28. Chapter 28

_February 1_

Chase looked through the morning paper in Dr. Alan Johnson's waiting room. He held it directly in front of his face, covering himself in hopes that no one who was passing by the office would notice him. He wondered why anyone had thought glass walls were a good idea for a hospital. His appointment was for nine o'clock, and he had come to the hospital with House about half an hour early, rather than taking a cab or letting House use him as an excuse to be late.

Since he did not want to see Cameron or Foreman first thing, he went directly to Dr. Johnson's office. Though, on further evaluation, he had decided that he should have tried passing some time hiding in the janitor's closet. While he tried to remain unseen, his stomach was in anxious knots anticipating what he would have to talk about when he went into the doctor's office.

His nerves were not calmed any knowing that he would have to go back by the Diagnostic's department before leaving. He had to get someone to draw blood for his next HIV test. He did not want any random nurse to do it and if that meant he was abusing his position as a doctor, so be it. He planned to ask Cameron since she had had an exposure scare and understood more than anyone else might.

They had had a very brief conversation the night before (much to Wilson's relief). Cameron had called to warn him that she had told House, Foreman, and Cuddy about his mother.

"I'm so sorry. I know you didn't mean for me to tell anyone. Please don't be angry. Foreman had tried to convince Cuddy you were suicidal and I knew you weren't and the only way I could convince Cuddy was to tell her you had a very good reason to not consider suicide as a way out." Her words had come tumbling out very quickly.

"House already told me you told them," Chase had replied coolly. "I wish you'd called earlier." He wished she had warned him before he saw House so he would not have jumped to the wrong conclusion about what she had revealed.

"I just got in," she explained. "I had to do some labs."

"Well, you're going to be pissed at me," Chase said. "House basically told me you'd told them something personal and I thought you'd told them about what happened, or what _didn't_ happen, yesterday."

"Oh god," Cameron groaned. "So you reacted to that and now he knows?"

"Yeah," Chase answered. "Feel free to shoot me next time you see me. I won't mind."

Cameron sighed, knowing she was going to be in for it when House saw her next. "Don't worry. I don't think House can torment you given the circumstances."

"He can torment you."

"And he probably will."

"Just make sure Foreman doesn't find out, okay? I'd like to have some dignity left. I don't think Cuddy needs to know either, for that matter." He did not think that any of them needed to know about his mother either, but that was a moot point now.

"Chase, don't beat yourself up. I'm the one who messed up."

"I don't want to talk about it," he told her.

"But it's--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They were silent for a moment before Chase said, "I should go. I don't have much privacy here."

"All right," Cameron said. She sounded disappointed. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure," Chase answered before they exchanged goodbyes.

"Dr. Chase, you're here early," Dr. Johnson walked briskly into his waiting area. He extended a hand. "I'm very sorry about the circumstances of our visit today," he said politely.

Chase shook his hand, "Uh, thanks." _God, is this what it's going to be like? _he wondered. _Are people going to see me and offer condolences? _He was certain his heart started beating faster when he thought about people looking at him and seeing a _that guy_.

"Come on back," Johnson said.

Chase frowned and tried to fold the paper to put it back on the table against the wall. He found that his hands were shaking and he could not get it to fold back neatly. Frustrated, he left it in an untidy heap and followed the psychiatrist. He noticed that the receptionist watched him closely as he walked by her. He kept himself from snapping "What?" to her.

"Anything interesting in the news this morning?" Johnson asked as Chase went to the couch and sat. He had never felt comfortable with lying down while talking to the psychiatrist. He knew the office well from his previous visits. He had been assigned to Dr. Johnson when he began his fellowship with House, so he had two mandatory sessions each year. He had briefly seen him on a more regular basis after his father's death.

"Not really," Chase answered. The truth was that he had not actually read anything. The newspaper was serving only as a shield.

Dr. Johnson was a tall, thin man. Everything about him seemed too long somehow: long legs, long arms, long fingers. He probably even had long toes on his long feet. He had muddy brown, neatly cut hair and eyes that were about the same color as his hair. He usually wore Dockers and solid colored shirts and Chase had never seen him in a sport coat. There was always something askew on his desk. Johnson, while he came across as a very intelligent man, also came across as scattered and disorganized.

Chase knew practically nothing about him. He supposed that psychiatrists were a bit like a priests in that they were there to listen, not to talk about themselves. There was a photograph on his desk that showed Johnson with a much shorter woman and three gangly kids. Since he wore a wedding band, Chase assumed that he was still married and had been for at least fifteen years, judging by the age of the oldest boy. It was a good to think that your psychiatrist had a healthy family life, though Chase knew photographs could lie.

Chase realized that Johnson was getting out his notebook and that meant their session was about to start. His stomach felt as if it were doing flip flops. He knew some psychiatrists would record sessions, but Johnson was a note taker. Or maybe he liked to doodle while he ignored his patient. Either way, Chase was glad he would not be recorded.

"So, what was it like coming back to the hospital today?" Johnson asked after settling in the chair next to the couch.

"Um," Chase was startled. He had been expecting an opening question closer to "tell me everything that happened in the clinic." He considered the question. What had it been like to come back? "I was a little surprised, I guess," he answered.

"By what?"

"All the security. You can't just walk into the hospital now." He had followed House into the hospital and was confused for a moment when House scanned an ID badge with a bar code and told him he would have to get a new one. "I've got to get a new ID badge," he said aloud. He supposed his old one was somewhere with the clothes and shoes he had been wearing in the clinic. It was a little thing, but he counted it as another loss.

"What do you think of the security?"

"Kind of late," he answered. "You know, House got shot and nothing changed."

Johnson nodded.

Chase assumed he agreed that the security was late, but the other man never committed to an opinion. He looked to the ceiling to see if there were any new video cameras. There were none that he could detect. He wondered how that worked with doctor-patient confidentiality anyway. Could they film image but not sound? He was certain they could not put cameras in the exam rooms or patient rooms, but they might be able to justify cameras in offices and definitely in waiting rooms and hallways. He glanced at a fake potted plant. Maybe there was a recording device hidden in it now. Johnson would already have had a panic button behind his desk since he dealt with potentially psychotic people. Chase wanted to see it, just to know that it was there, maybe so he would know what to look for the next time he was in the clinic. His breath hitched as he considered that.

"You seem nervous, Robert," Johnson started.

Chase hated the way Johnson always tried to address him by his first name. He shrugged.

"Are you?" Johnson asked.

"I don't want to do this," he admitted. He dreaded revisiting the attack.

"Do what?"

"Tell you the details about what happened," Chase answered.

"Have I ever made you tell me details about anything?"

Chase considered the question. "Do I have a choice?" he asked, hopefully.

"You know I can't make you talk about anything you don't wish to discuss."

"But you can tell Cuddy that I'm not fit to go back to work," Chase reminded him. "Maybe you're pretending I have an option, but I won't get a clean bill of mental health until I talk to you about what happened."

He wrote something. "Would being able to talk about _the details _help you go back to work?"

"I don't think so," Chase answered, annoyed that Johnson would neither confirm nor deny his paranoid speculation.

"If, or when, you reach a point where you want to discuss any specifics, that's fine. I will listen to whatever you need to tell me. But, Robert, I don't think that reliving a play by play account will heal you."

"Really?" Chase asked, surprised. "I thought I had to remember everything to get better, but I'm not sure that remembering made a difference."

Johnson made some more notes. "Did you have trouble remembering what had happened?"

"Yeah, I think I repressed it or something. At first I thought maybe I didn't remember because of physical trauma, you know, lack of oxygen from being strangled, head injury." Chase stopped abruptly. "By the way, exactly what do you know about what happened to me?" It was a fair question. "And who told you?"

"Dr. Cuddy contacted me after you were admitted. She told me you were held at gunpoint, along with Dr. Foreman; strangled; and sexually assaulted. She said you were to start regular counseling sessions as soon as your throat healed and you could speak again. She called me yesterday and told me you were ready to begin a regular schedule of therapy."

Chase was silent. Cuddy had given him minimal details. _I guess she had to tell him that much. It's not her place to tell anyone though_. He was torn between betrayal and appreciation. "Wait a minute, if Cuddy set all this up when it happened, then who sent Ms. Sunshine and how can I see you today if she only told you I was ready yesterday?"

"I cleared my schedule," he answered. "Who sent whom?"

"That annoyingly chipper crisis counselor." Chase noticed that Johnson was biting his lip as if he were trying to not smile.

"You mean Tammy."

"Whatever. Why did she come see me if I was going to see you anyway?" It made no sense to him that a Master's degree level counselor would be sent to talk to him when he already had a psychiatrist by virtue of being on staff.

"It's standard procedure to send in a crisis counselor. We have two women on staff who serve in those positions. Tammy Martin is the chipper one."

"There should be a man too," Chase said before he thought.

"Perhaps," Johnson replied without conviction.

"Oh, right. Not enough demand for a male rape crisis counselor. How foolish of me," Chase said sarcastically.

Johnson did not reply.

"Do you have any idea how stupid that was--sending someone in to see me? I didn't want anyone to know, much less some random stranger."

"It's protocol," Johnson answered.

"Well it should be changed. My attending physician should have asked me if I wanted a counselor instead of someone assigning one."

"You were upset that she came to see you?"

"I was annoyed and embarrassed. Look, I think having a counselor available is a good thing, but someone should have presented the option and let the choice be mine to make. It was one more thing that I had forced upon me." He realized there had a been a pattern ever since he had been attacked--few things had been left for him to decide. House had decided his living arrangements. Cuddy had decided his therapy schedule. Foreman and Cameron had even decided what clothes he had available.

"I think that is a valid opinion," Johnson told him.

Chase knew that Johnson validating his opinion did not mean anything would actually change.

"Let's get back to what you were saying about your memories. You repressed what had happened, but you said that remembering had not really helped. Can you tell me about how your repressed memories returned?"

"Foreman came to see me and I had a flashback or something, I guess."

"Was there a specific moment that triggered the flashback?"

"I don't know… I don't really remember." Chase supposed that sounded odd. Here he was saying that Foreman triggered memories, but he could not remember exactly why. "He raised his voice, but I think it was more that he was standing over me and angry."

"What happened?"

"I felt sick and had to throw up. It was like all these moments started bombarding me at once. I got dizzy and nauseated." He did remember kneeling on the floor in the bathroom, physically and emotionally overwhelmed.

"Can you tell me about those moments?"

Chase shook his head. "Too jumbled," he answered. _Too painful_, he thought. There really was not a way to put those memories into words and he did not want to even try.

Johnson scribbled more notes and nodded. "Tell me about the other facets of your life. How have things changed since you were hurt?"

Chase was glad that Johnson was not pushing for details.

"I'm living with House at the moment." He answered. Chase noticed that Johnson looked up abruptly when he said that. While the psychiatrist was usually a master of non-reaction to anything said to him, Chase saw that even he could not hide a momentary look of shock. It also took him a few seconds longer than normal to respond.

"How is that working out?"

"Okay so far. It's just a one-bedroom apartment, so I'm staying in the living room. I've been taking care of the place so I have something to keep me busy and also to kind of pay House back for letting me and Kacey stay with him."

"Kacey?"

"My cat."

"Believe it or not, he moved in before I did. House decided I would stay with him while I was recovering and sent Cameron and Foreman to my apartment to get some of my stuff and they realized I had a cat and they couldn't move me without moving him."

"House decided you would stay with him?"

"Right. Because they broke into my apartment." Chase answered.

"What did you think of having that decision made for you?"

"I was hesitant. I didn't want to put House in danger, but it made sense to be away from my own apartment. I don't really have anywhere else to go, so I'm grateful that he volunteered to let me stay with him."

"You're getting along okay?"

Chase nodded. He did not feel like expanding on the answer. He watched Johnson scribble more notes.

"Do you mind if I ask if you knew these men beforehand?"

For some reason, Chase had expected Dr. Johnson to know more than he did. He relayed how he had initially met Joe and saved his life. "But that was the only time I'd ever seen him before," he stressed. He did not want anyone to think that he knew those men even well enough to call them acquaintances. "Any idea why he came looking for me?" Chase asked. "Why did he attack me even though I saved his life?"

Johnson replied, "You're my patient. Not him. I wouldn't begin to speculate his motives. Are you afraid that they will find you again?"

"Yes," he answered truthfully, disappointed that Johnson would not even attempt to help him understand the attackers. "They said they'd… that they would… come back and… again… if I talked to the police." He hated the way he was having trouble expressing himself, but there was something different about talking about the rape that had happened already and the looming threat of another.

"But you talked to the police anyway."

"I didn't have a choice--_again_. Foreman already had. The university is going to press charges for bringing a weapon onto an extension of the campus. So I was going to be called as a witness, even if I didn't want to talk."

Johnson nodded. "How do you feel about that? Did you want to press charges?"

"No, I didn't. I… they said they'd shoot Foreman and anyone I care about and…" he did not finish his sentence. "I didn't have a choice. They made me talk to the police. Or write to them. House read what I wrote to them."

Johnson made more notes.

"Do you care about Dr. Foreman?"

Chase looked up, thinking that was an odd question. He shrugged, "I don't want him to get killed."

"That's a _yes_?"

"Yes," Chase answered.

"Foreman was threatened directly?"

"I have a headache," Chase announced, suddenly. He covered his forehead with his hand and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger on either side.

"Any other recurring aches and pains?" Johnson inquired.

Chase was glad that Johnson was taking his cue to move away from the subject of Foreman, though he knew his headache stunt would cost him in the long run.

He shook his head, keeping his eyes averted from his doctor. _Aches and pains are symptoms of depression_, he reminded himself, absently rubbing his right wrist. "I just have a headache."

"How about your sleep patterns?"

"Completely messed up," he admitted. "I think it's the ARV's," he offered. _Another symptom of depression, but I can blame the medicine. _He did not mind admitting to problems sleeping because he had had the same difficulty after his father died. He was already taking medication for depression, but he and Johnson had talked about eventually weaning him from the drug. He felt as if he were failing somehow if he sunk into a deeper depression than he had ever faced before.

"Are you sleeping too much or not enough?"

"Um, well, I guess I'm sleeping enough. I just have a very hard time going to sleep, so I wind up awake until two or three in the morning and asleep until ten or eleven. That's probably why I have a headache now," he offered. "I'm functioning on about four hours of sleep." He realized how stupid that would sound to a fellow doctor as soon as it left his mouth. Four hours of sleep could be a luxury.

If Johnson questioned sleep deprivation as the cause of his sudden headache, he let it slide. "So what do you do while you're up that late?"

Chase shrugged, "Mostly watch TV, I guess. I can't move around too much or I'll wake up House."

"How's your appetite?"

"Normal." It was another lie. He knew he was eating less than used to eat. If he were not cooking for House and sometimes Wilson, he doubted he would bother with cooking for himself.

"You look like you've lost weight since our last visit."

"I was on a liquid/soft food diet for about two weeks. My throat was significantly damaged."

"Any mood swings?"

Chase knew there was no good way to answer this. Mood swings were highly likely given what he had been through. Admitting to them would put a checkmark in the "incompetent" column that he imagined on Johnson's notepad. Not admitting to them would also earn him an "incompetent" check for lying. "Some."

"Tell me about your mood swings."

Chase inhaled. "I can be okay and then really sad or annoyed without really having a good reason."

"Anger?"

"Not enough."

"What do you mean?" Johnson queried.

"Sometimes I feel like I need to get angrier than I can." Johnson nodded, so he continued. "Those bastards hurt me for no reason and I should be angry--at the hospital as an institution for not having better security, at them for what they did, at Foreman for… being Foreman, at Cuddy for bringing in lawyers and advocates; at Cameron," he stopped. "Part of me wants to be angry, but I feel like I don't have the right to be angry or that I'll make everything worse if I get angry." Chase knew there had been times when he had gotten angry, but he was pleased that he had not exploded in anger. He had come close only with Foreman. "I can't be angry at the people who are being kind to me, even when they do stupid things, because they're just trying to help. So I should be grateful."

"How would getting angry make things worse?"

He shook his head, "I don't know."

"I think you do know."

Chase was silent. He thought of his parents yelling at one another; his father walking out and the boom of the door slamming behind him; his mother turning on him and yelling at him when there was no one else; a stinging hand across his cheek when she was so frustrated that words along could not make her point.

"People leave or hurt you when they get angry. I don't want to be alone."

"Or hurt."

He nodded.

"Your father left."

He nodded again.

"Who hurt you when they were angry?"

He shrugged.

Johnson scribbled. "What does your father leaving have to do with him being angry?"

"It was the easiest way out. Just leave. Avoid what makes you angry."

"But we're talking about _you_ being angry. Are you going to leave if you get angry?"

"No, but if I get mad, someone else will get mad. That's the way it works. They can get rid of me if I make them angry. They don't have to put up with me. I don't deserve it anyway, so why bother with me if I just get angry when they do something that upsets me?"

"What does an angry person act like? What angry behavior do you not want to exhibit?"

Chase looked at him, confused. _Isn't that kind of a stupid question? _he thought.

Johnson waited quietly while Chase thought about his answer.

"Yelling?" Chase answered softly, more in a question itself than a statement.

Johnson looked at him expectantly.

"Screaming, cursing, breaking things, hit--" he shook his head and bit his lip.

Johnson tilted his head slightly.

Chase looked around the room, anywhere but at the psychiatrist.

"Who hit you?"

"No one."

"Who hit you?"

Chase closed his eyes.

"Robert."

"They did," he answered. "I don't know why. I tried to cooperate. I couldn't help it. It was disgusting and I couldn't let him kiss me. It wasn't a kiss, it was… sick. I did the best I could." Chase looked up and saw that the doctor was looking at him suspiciously.

"Were you angry that he kissed you?"

Chase tried to identify what he was feeling, remembering the forced kiss. "I don't know," he answered, blinking several times. "I don't… I think… I was afraid? Embarrassed?"

"What were you thinking about?"

He shook his head, "I don't know."

Johnson glanced at his watch. "I want to go back to your fear of being angry."

Chase was relieved.

"Remember, anything you tell me is confidential. Have you ever hit anyone because you were angry?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

"Have you ever wanted to hit someone because you were angry?"

He thought about it. "Not really."

"Then why would you hit someone now? Has your nature changed dramatically?"

"I guess not," Chase answered.

"You yell when you're angry?"

Chase nodded, "Sometimes."

"Can you express yourself without raising your voice?"

"Yes."

"Then, the next time you get angry, talk it out. People often yell because they are being yelled at. They respond in kind. You can let someone know how you feel without it escalating into a screaming match."

"Okay," Chase agreed. But he was still not certain that he should risk hurting the relationships he had.

"Our time is almost up for the day. I have a few things I want you to try before our next session." He left the chair and rummaged through a desk drawer. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out a blue spiral-bound seven by five inch notebook. "Take this home with you. If anything comes to mind that you'd like to discuss, make a note of it. If your emotions become overwhelming, jot down what you're feeling. Stream of consciousness often reveals much. Now, don't worry, I'm not going to say, _Hand over the notebook, _and read all your thoughts. But writing things down may help you pinpoint areas where we need to concentrate. The book is yours to keep. I won't ask to see it again. You can bring it to your sessions if you'd like."

"What if I don't feel like writing?" Chase asked, taking the notebook. He wondered if clients often used the excuse that they did not have a notebook as a reason to not do their "homework."

"I imagine you will, eventually." Johnson answered.

"Also, if you get angry, don't stifle it. Just handle it differently than you've seen anger handled. I'm confident that you can express yourself without being emotionally or physically abusive to another person. Anger doesn't have to manifest itself in abuse."

"Okay," Chase stood, knowing the session was over. "Um, thanks for the notebook," he said shyly.

"I'll see you in a couple of days then," Johnson said, going to open the door for his client.

"Yeah," Chase shook the man's hand on his way out. He closed the door behind him and walked hastily from the waiting room. He breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to catch the elevator alone. He leaned against the wall as the doors closed and inhaled as he thought, _One therapy session down. One HIV test to go._

_AN: So, I guess if I did chapter titles, this one would have been called "Therapy Is Tedious." Please let me know if you liked this kind of chapter. Chase's thoughts and observations were noted, but all we know of Johnson is what Chase observed. _


	29. Chapter 29

"I can run the test myself if you want me to," Cameron offered. She had just drawn some blood for Chase's next HIV test. She had never been squeamish about blood, but it did bother her that she had, inevitably, caused Chase more pain. He seemed far less bothered by it than she did.

He nodded as he re-buttoned his shirt sleeve at the wrist. His heart was beating too fast. He had never before realized how far it was between the elevator and the office. No less than five staff members had stopped what they were doing to stare at him as he walked past them. None of them spoke. Or, if they did, it went unheard. This was playing out just like one of his nightmares where everything was in slow motion and people gawked at him and shook their heads in pity or disgust. He kept going with the singular goal of reaching the safe haven of the Diagnostics office. He forgot all about House's advice to hold his head high when he came back into the hospital. "Duck and cover" seemed much more appropriate strategy.

He was torn between wanting to stay exactly where he was and racing from the office, rescuing his vehicle from the parking lot where it had been since he had parked the morning of the attack, and driving as far away as fast as he could. He was grateful that he had an assigned parking spot and staff parking pass. Otherwise, his car probably would have been towed away by now.

"I think…" Chase started to stand. "I think I need to go," he said.

Cameron noticed that he was unsteady. She grabbed his arm. "You shouldn't get up too quickly," she reminded him. She assumed he had not eaten anything that morning, less he risk affecting the lab results. "Let me get you some juice or something," she offered, though it was unusual for someone to be dizzy from such a small amount of blood loss.

His head was spinning, but he knew it was not just because he had had blood taken. His heart was pounding and he heard a rushing sound that reminded him of holding a seashell to his ear and listening to the "ocean." He inhaled a choppy breath.

"You need to sit back down," Cameron told him, realizing how pale he had become. "I think you're going to pass out."

"I think my heart's going to explode," he whispered. He fell back into the chair and closed his eyes, wincing as his heart continued to pound furiously and painfully.

Cameron felt for his pulse and found that it was high. He was starting to sweat. She reminded herself that he was young and healthy and at a very low risk for a true cardiac episode. "You're having a panic attack," she diagnosed. She could only imagine how much stress came from returning to the hospital, seeing the psychiatrist, and having another HIV test within the span of about two hours. "Did Dr. Johnson prescribe anything for anxiety?"

Chase shook his head. "I was fine there," he told her.

"What medicines are you taking? I can get you something that won't interfere with the others," she offered.

"No," he answered.

"Chase, your heart is racing. You need something to calm down," she argued. "I'll get you some Klonopin. It should be safe."

"No," he told her again.

"Chase," she said his name as if it were a desperate attempt to get him to see reason.

"I can't drug myself every time I get upset," he kept his eyes closed and tried to focus his breathing to slow his heart.

"You need something to stop the attack."

"No!" Chase raised his voice.

"Your heart rate is--"

"Slowing down," Chase interrupted her. "I said _no_. I don't want to be sedated. Let me make a decision for myself. Please."

Cameron backed away from him to give him space, realizing that someone standing over him was likely to increase his anxiety. She waited, watching him closely. His respiration steadied as the minutes passed. She was almost offended that he had refused her medical help, but she was more impressed that he did not want to be drugged into oblivion instead of facing his problems. His words echoed in her mind. _I said no_.

"I should get this blood to the lab," she said. She was eager to get the blood tested and waiting too long might ruin the sample. "The confirmatory test will take longer, but I can be back with the results of the rapid test in fifteen minutes. Will you wait for me?"

"Yeah," Chase answered. "Thanks," he made a half-hearted attempt to smile. His life as he knew it had ceased in the clinic, but there was still hope to getting back to normal--unless that test came back positive. That result would change everything. Forever.

He waited and wondered where House and Foreman were. He noticed the writing on the whiteboard and realized they had taken on a patient. But, still, House rarely saw patients. It was too early for lunch. _He must be with Wilson_, Chase decided. He saw that Foreman's laptop was at the other end of the table, closed at the moment. _Probably writing another article_, he guessed, reminding himself that he had missed his last deadline for publication.

The notebook that Johnson had given him caught his eye. He had set it on the table when he came into the office. He wondered for a moment if writing might help him stave off another panic attack. Hoping that he would not be interrupted, he decided to give it a shot.

"_Dr. Johnson said that "stream of consciousness could reveal much." I'm not sure how much I want to reveal to anyone, even myself. Is paranoia actually paranoia when it's firmly grounded in reality? I know that three nurses and two doctors were watching me like they thought I was some kind of freak when I walked through the hallway. Damn. That sounds paranoid. _

_"I can't let what other people think get to me. I don't know what other people think. I can' t let _my fear_ of what other people think get to me. That's better. It's arrogant to assume they're thinking about me at all. _

_"Reactions don't lie, though. It's wishful thinking to hope they won't see me and think about it, at least at first, if what Cuddy said was true. She wouldn't lie about that. She wouldn't want me to think that everyone knew what happened." _

Chase found that his mood fluctuated with the words he wrote. He was hopeful one moment, downtrodden the next. 

_"Does it matter if someone thinks about what happened? Only if it interferes with our jobs. So, yes, it matters. I don't have to let shame disrupt my work. I can't. I can't control what other people think, but I don't want patient care to be risked by my presence. I'm worrying too much about things I can't control. I'm putting too much emphasis on myself. I'm not so important that people can't look at me without thinking about what happened. I don't matter that much in the grand scheme of things, not even in this fishbowl._

_"It's not just about the patients. The problem is thinking leads to talking and I don't want anyone to try to talk to me about it. I don't want to hear 'I'm sorry,' because I don't want them to know and if they acknowledge it, I have to acknowledge it and I really want to forget it._

"_Why am I so ashamed? I didn't do anything wrong, did I? Why does it matter to me if people know I was attacked? I did the best I could. I don't want to think about it." _He shivered and shut the book. Writing had not solved anything, nor did he feel especially enlightened; but he was calm, so that had to count for something.

He looked up when he saw a figure approaching the doorway. It was not quite time for Cameron to be back.

Foreman walked into the office quietly. He stopped when he saw Chase. The two of them made eye contact. The tension between them hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating cloud.

"Hey," Foreman said.

"Hey," Chase responded.

Neither looked away from the other. Chase wondered if they were actually going to have a stare-down like a couple of juvenile brats. The part of him that usually wanted to be cordial was silent, not even prodding him to ask Foreman how he was doing.

Foreman did not take his eyes off Chase as he sat down across from him.

Chase could not decipher the message Foreman was sending. He was moving slowly, like he was tired or sad. He lacked the usual spark of defiance in his eyes that gave him a cocky air of confidence. If anything, Foreman seemed less confident than Chase had ever seen him before. He was glad he had stopped writing before Foreman arrived, less he be questioned about what he was writing. He kept a protective hand over the notebook which was too large to be completely covered by his palm.

"I see Dr. Johnson wants you to get in touch with your feelings," Foreman said, nodding toward the partially hidden notebook.

Chase could not stop his eyes from divulging his surprise at the statement. It told him that Foreman was having counseling sessions as well.

Foreman reached into the computer case that he had left on the floor beside the table and pulled out a spiral notebook almost identical to the one Chase was hiding. It was a moldy green color. He held it up so that Chase could see and shrugged.

Chase felt the corners of his mouth twitching. Before he could help it, he found that he was not only smiling but laughing at the idea that they both had been provided with notebooks with which they were to capture their feelings. He got the mental image of Johnson rummaging through another drawer until he found a notebook for Foreman. If he gave them out to everyone, why did he not have them better organized?

Foreman was aghast that Chase found it funny. How could he think it was funny given what they were supposed to be writing about?

Chase saw that Foreman did not share his amusement. He stopped laughing and his smile faded. He looked back at his notebook and then at Foreman's. "Mine's prettier," he said, holding up his blue notebook and starting to laugh again.

Foreman's eyes bulged. He was both annoyed and concerned that Chase was cackling over the notebooks. He had never seen Chase laugh so hard about anything before, not even one of House's jokes. But this was not funny to him, not in the least. He frowned, concluding that Chase was still unhinged.

"Oh, come on," Chase said, catching a breath. "Don't you think it's funny?" Neither of them were forthcoming about feelings, yet both had been ordered to emote. He imagined Foreman writing in his own notebook and took it a step further in his own mind by having his imaginary Foreman dotting his _i_'s with little hearts, which only caused him to laugh with more gusto.

"No," Foreman answered. "I don't feel like getting in touch with my feelings."

"Sounds to me like you are in touch with your feelings about not wanting to be in touch with your feelings," Chase said. "Go with that," he urged, straight faced, giving a slight nod.

"Have you lost your mind?" Foreman asked, annoyed. He suspected that Chase was trying to provoke him.

"Obviously," Chase answered, defiantly. "You're in therapy because you were there when they attacked me. You're giving Dr. Johnson a different perspective of what happened. I don't have one ounce of control about what he knows because he can just ask someone else--you. Maybe I don't want you to tell him _anything_," he glared. "I think the whole thing sucks."

"I won't tell him anything to embarrass you," Foreman offered.

"Yeah. We're so far beyond that," Chase said with a bitter laugh. The fact that Dr. Johnson knew anything at all embarrassed him. "The idea of you writing down all your feelings while I'm writing down all my feelings while Dr. Johnson is looking in, on, and under his desk for another notebook for another client is ludicrous enough to laugh about. You want me to cry instead?" Chase asked. "Would that make you feel better? Would that be the normal thing to do? Tell me because I don't know what _normal_ is. How am I _supposed_ to act?"

Foreman shrugged, knowing that he could not afford to let himself be sucked into a potentially volatile conversation. He did not know what _normal_ was either. He knew that he expected Chase to be more subdued, more like his old self.

"What the hell," Chase simpered. "I think we ought to rent _Steel Magnolias_, braid each other's hair, eat ice cream, and bond until we're BFF's."

Foreman had no idea how to respond. He feard this was all going to culminate in a psychotic break for Chase, but if he said anything about his concerns, he would be punished by the administration. He knew one thing was certain: if things got heated between him and Chase, he would be declared the bad guy.

Chase saw that Foreman was watching him with trepidation. "I'm not crazy," he asserted. "That's actually a sign of being crazy. You know--saying that you're not. Maybe I am. You don't have enough hair to braid anyway. I could paint your toenails instead," he started to laugh again, until he saw Cameron at the door.

She came back into the office holding a sheet of paper. "What's so funny?" she asked, looking between the two of them. Chase was clearly amused, but Foreman looked irritated.

"Nothing," Foreman answered curtly.

"He doesn't have a sense of humor," Chase told her. He got up and met her, reaching for the paper. He did not have to read it though. The smile that greeted him told him all he needed to know. "It's negative?" he asked, scanning the paper to find the result.

"It's negative!" Cameron nodded. "You know what that means, right? It's been long enough since the exposure that you would have begun to produce antibodies by now. The odds of getting a positive with the confirmatory test or a later test are slim."

"Oh, thank God!" Chase exclaimed, throwing his arms around Cameron. "Thank you for doing the test," he whispered.

She returned his hug with enthusiasm. She had worried earlier that he was being distant because he was angry with her. She had agonized over their last conversation while waiting for the results. She tried to tell herself that he was distant because of the stress and the panic attack. Then she reminded herself that she had contributed to that stress leading to the panic attack by telling everyone about his mother's death. She feared that he was only spending time with her because he needed someone to run the HIV test.

Chase lifted Cameron two inches off the floor, tightening his hug. "Thank you," he said again.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Was that the HIV test?" Foreman asked, interrupting his colleagues' embrace.

Chase set Cameron back on the floor and let her go.

Cameron turned to him with a scathing expression. "Obviously," she answered, reminding Foreman of Chase.

"It's great that it's negative," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic, but not quite succeeding. While he was glad that Chase had not contracted HIV, he had little zeal for anything at the moment. He had spent his morning biting his tongue to keep from offending others so he would not garner further complaints and lose his treatment privileges. He hoped that the removal of the possible death sentence from AIDS would help Chase stop behaving in such a bizarre way, deciding to chalk this latest round of strange behavior up to the pressure of waiting for the test results. Otherwise, he would have to assume that _he_ was the cause of Chase's bouts of erratic reactions since everyone else seemed to be of the opinion that Chase was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

Cameron turned back to Chase, "What are you doing the rest of the day?"

"I've got to take my car home."

"Oh, I don't think you should drive yet," she warned.

"I'm off most of the medicines," Chase told her. "You drove while you were taking the ARVs," he reminded her.

"I didn't have to take seventeen other things at the same time," she reminded him.

"I'm off most of the other drugs now,"

"Still, you said they may you sleepy, whereas they made me wired. _You_ shouldn't drive. If you can wait until lunchtime, I can drive your car back to your place, or House's, whichever you want," she offered. "We figured out the case. The patient is getting better. I don't have to stay here all afternoon."

Foreman ignored the rest of their conversation. Something kept gnawing at his gut, telling him that Chase was not doing nearly as well as the others asserted. They had not been there. They had not witnessed what he endured. Foreman reassessed his promise to avoid saying anything to Johnson that would embarrass Chase. Johnson was neutral and he was in a position of power. It was up to him to decide if Chase was competent to do his job. Someone who could--and would--do something about it needed to accept just how unstable Chase actually was.

AN: I'm sorry it's taken so long to update! Thank you again to everyone who is following the story and thanks for the feedback!


	30. Chapter 30

"Someone has got to do something about Chase," Foreman told Dr. Johnson when the time came for his session. He wondered if Johnson had intentionally planned for his next session to be on the same day as Chase's first one, or if that had been a coincidence. "_You've_ got to do something."

"Like what?" Johnson asked, opening his notebook.

"Treat him or something. He's nuts."

"I'm more concerned with treating you at the moment, Eric," Johnson told him with a quality in his voice that rang like a warning.

"You can't treat me without treating Chase," Foreman argued. Johnson had an unpleasant habit of making a patient focus on himself.

"Why?"

"Because," Foreman answered insolently, though it was not an answer at all. He knew that response would not suffice so he added, "Because Chase _is_ my problem."

"Explain," Johnson directed.

"I saw him in the office this morning. He thought it was hysterical that we both had been told to write things down. He's not acting right."

"What's the right way for him to act?"

Foreman sighed in frustration. "I don't know. But it wasn't funny. We both have notebooks. What could possibly be funny about that?"

"Did you consider that he found humor in some aspect that you did not see?"

Now that he was face to face with Johnson, Foreman tried to imagine what Chase had said about the man looking through his disorganized desk for another notebook. He still doubted that Chase could be _that_ amused by the mental image. "He was… there was nothing funny about it! How can he laugh about anything to do with it? If I were laughing, everyone would think I was a total ass."

"Why?"

"Because it's not funny," Foreman said, wondering why he had to state the obvious. He hated the counseling sessions he had to have by virtue of being a doctor at this hospital. These sessions, thrust upon him by virtue of Cuddy's _concern_, were vehemently despised. He did not want therapy and refused to believe that he needed it.

Johnson waited quietly, writing a few things down.

"I didn't tell you before because I didn't want to embarrass him, but Chase really freaked out when I went to see him." Foreman paused, then took Johnson's silence as his cue to continue. "I guess he remembered what had happened. The thing is, he doesn't want me to even acknowledge that I was there. He wants to pretend that I wasn't even in the clinic and that I don't know anything at all. He even said he wants me to pretend that he's on vacation in Australia. He told me that I wasn't there, like he actually _believed_ it for a minute. He was argumentative. None of it made much sense to me."

"How is this _your_ problem?"

"Because he's crazy and no one will listen to me." Foreman crossed his arms and set his jaw. He waited for Johnson's response.

"What is it that you think I can do about it? You said that I had to do something."

"You can tell Cuddy that he's not ready to come back to work. He can't be ready to come back as long as he's acting like this."

"Laughing?"

"Laughing inappropriately. Everyone keeps saying that he's doing fine, but they don't see him when I do. They don't get it."

"Is it possible that that the events you deem inappropriate have been isolated occurrences?"

"It looks like a pattern to me," Foreman claimed. Both times he had had a conversation with Chase alone since the attack, Chase had behave erratically. "Who knows how he acts when he's alone. He may have them fooled, but I know he's unstable."

"Based on two events?"

"Did you listen to what I said about the first time? He was not even on the same planet as the rest of us!"

"Flashbacks are part of post traumatic stress for some patients," Johnson said vaguely enough to not identify Chase as one of those patients. "A person who has been through a highly traumatizing event may react in a number of ways. Some act out with anger, hostility, and paranoia. Some have problems with sleeping, eating, or sexual dysfunction. You can't judge everyone by the same measure."

"I know all of that," Foreman spat. Did Johnson think he was too stupid to catch the implication was that he also had PTSD?

"How did Dr. Chase know you both had been told to write things down?"

Foreman shrugged. He hated the way Johnson would dart around a subject and the seemingly random way he would direct the conversation. "What difference does it make how he knew? Can we talk about what's _important_ here?" He had hoped that Johnson would take the flashback more seriously than Cuddy had.

Johnson waited quietly.

"I showed him my book." Foreman answered through clenched teeth, resenting Johnson for honing in on pointless details.

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know," he answered in a low voice.

"There had to be a reason."

Foreman narrowed his eyes. "He was in the office and I saw his notebook. I thought he would feel better if he knew I had one too."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I didn't put that much thought into it."

Johnson was silent.

"I guess so he would know he wasn't the only one," Foreman offered reluctantly.

"You think that knowledge would be beneficial for him?" Johnson asked, scribbling in his notebook.

"Sure."

"Why?"

"God, you're annoying." Foreman snapped, failing to get a reaction from the other doctor. He thought he might punch something if Johnson asked him "why" one more time.

"Why would knowing you've also been asked to write help Dr. Chase?"

He inhaled, then spoke slowly. "I told you. So he wouldn't think he was the only one."

"Is that important?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Foreman glared. "Because he's not the only one who was in that room. He's not the only one this has affected." He was almost yelling his response.

"It's important for him to recognize that?"

"They all need to recognize that."

"And you believe they do not?"

"House and Cuddy don't take me seriously. Cameron acts like she thinks I did something wrong. They all want to protect Chase."

"What does that mean for you?" Johnson made notes.

"They won't listen to me."

"About what?"

"About Chase. About anything. House and Cameron wouldn't even pay my theories any attention in differential diagnosis." His theories had all been wrong in this case, but that was beside the point.

"Tell me how Chase recognizing that you were also affected by the assault fits into your dynamics with the team."

"I don't know," Foreman said, standing up. "This is pointless. I'm leaving." He quickly headed for the door.

"I'm listening to you, Eric, even though you may feel like no one else is." Johnson told him. His voice was as calm and steady as ever. He may no attempt to physically stop the other man from leaving.

"Whatever," Foreman said, slamming the door behind him. He sauntered through the waiting room and out into the hallway, seething because no one was taking him seriously. He could hear two interns speaking as he got closer to them.

"Guess who I saw today?" A young man with black hair and glasses said to the other.

The other one shrugged as he made notes on a clipboard. "Who?"

"That guy that everyone says got raped," he answered.

The one with the clipboard snorted as he tried to stifle a laugh. "Where was he?"

"Coming out of Dr. Johnson's office," the first one answered.

"Can't imagine why," his cohort responded with a chuckle. He looked up from the clipboard. "You know what I heard?" He lowered his voice.

Foreman eased closer so he could hear what the two were saying. They were too absorbed in their conversation to pay him any mind.

"It was a couple of guys that tried to pick up Dr. Chase at some bar or something. Like they wanted a three-way."

The black haired intern groaned. "Oh, that's disgusting. But I guess if you're going to hang out in that kind of bar…" he let his sentence trail off. "Dr. Chase looks like a fag to me anyway. He was probably asking for it. What kind of man couldn't stop--" he never finished his sentence.

"And exactly what does a fag look like?" Foreman asked, lunging forward and grabbing the intern by his collar. "Black hair, mismatched scrubs, and a dismally blank expression on his bespectacled face?"

"Dude, get off!" he pushed against Foreman who let go of him.

"It was rape, you stupid motherfucker!" Foreman yelled. Before he could stop himself he had punched the younger man so hard he flew across the hallway, hit the wall and slid to the floor, blood gushing from his nose. His glasses were askew and the lenses looked cracked on one side.

"Call security!" a nurse squealed as she saw the commotion. She ran to the fallen intern and tried to help him control the bleeding.

Foreman continued to shout. "It was a former patient. The only prior contact Dr. Chase had with scumbag was saving his worthless life. We were held at gunpoint and he was raped. Don't you _ever_ imply that it was consensual or something he was asking for or that he's gay ever again or I'll break more than your goddamned nose!"

Foreman turned to the gathering crowd. "That goes for the rest of you! Do you understand? He did what he had to do to keep me and everyone else in that clinic from getting killed!" He focused on the two interns again. "He's a better man than either of you snot-nosed punks could even hope to be! Do you hear me?" He was breathing hard and had burst into a sweat.

The man with the clipboard had eased as far from Foreman as he could get.

There was a barrage of footsteps as four security guards came bustling through the hallway.

Foreman felt two men standing on either side of him. They had his arms pinned to his side. He tried to jerk away from them. "Get the fuck off me," he yelled, nostrils flaring.

Two other doctors were helping the nurse with the man Foreman had punched.

The familiar speedy click of high heels could be heard as Cuddy came rushing toward the scene. "Somebody tell me what's going on here!" she demanded, taking in the sight before her. Foreman was being restrained. Three staff members were gathered around a fourth who was obviously injured. At least a dozen onlookers were gawking at the the scene.

"That psycho punched Gates," the clipboard holder reported, pointing toward Foreman.

"Foreman?" Cuddy turned to him to get his side of the story.

"Those two assholes were saying Chase was asking for it. They're spreading malicious lies."

Cuddy turned back to the two men. "Is that true, Phillips?" she asked.

He did not answer.

"I'm not the only one who heard you," Foreman yelled. "You were too stupid to keep your trash talk out of the hallway."

"Did anyone else hear what they were saying? Nurse Hempstead?" she asked the middle-aged blonde who was helping Gates.

She nodded. "They were being rather vulgar about it," she admitted.

"Both of you are out of here," Cuddy snapped. "And don't come back."

Gates, Phillips, Hempstead, and many of the other bystanders were visibly shaken by the declaration.

"But, we're still students. We have to finish the program--" Phillips started.

"You're _out_ of this program. I won't put up with such a blatant disrespect and slandering of your superiors. Get your things and get out of my hospital." She sneered at Gates. "And stop bleeding all over the floor." She turned back to Foreman. "You. Come with me. You're not getting off so lightly either." She addressed the security guards, "Let him go."

Foreman shrugged off the guards. His heart sank as he followed Cuddy to find out if he still had a future at PPTH.


	31. Chapter 31

AN: It's like a Foreman detour, but don't worry Chasers, it's still very much about Chase too. Be forewarned, this has some adult content.

Cuddy paced in her office, quietly absorbing Foreman's recollection of the events in the hallway. She believed Foreman's account--it had been self-incriminating enough--though she would have to check with other witnesses to verify what he had told her.

Foreman watched her pace, waiting for the hammer to fall. The interns had been thrown out of the program based on their partaking in gossip. He had already been warned about his behavior, but he had ignored the warning and physically attacked another member of the staff. Whatever happened, he knew it would be severe.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Cuddy asked, turning on her heels and leaning against the edge of her desk.

Foreman looked down at his knees, "Messed up," he answered. It may have been a weak answer, but it summed up the situation well.

"You have done exactly what we have tried to avoid. You just confirmed details of the attack to a floor full of doctors, nurses, and patients."

"It was in the newspaper," Foreman argued.

"Sexually assaulted," Cuddy told him. "The AP report said _Two doctors, held at gunpoint, one was sexually assaulted_. Not only did you confirm that the two doctors were Dr. Chase and yourself, you confirmed that there was a rape. _Sexual assault _can mean groping, fondling, kissing, oral sex, any unwanted contact. You confirmed forcible penetration."

Foreman squirmed, uncomfortable with the list she had just given because each word brought an unwanted memory of what he had witnessed. "Everyone knows something severe happened. He's been off work nearly a month."

"Strangulation. Mutism. Physical injuries. There was a whole list of medical reasons for an extended leave, none of which anyone had a right to know about, but at least they were circulating in the gossip too."

"So your way of handling it was to let anyone say anything they wanted?" Foreman asked. It made no sense to him at all. "To let people spread malicious lies and slander Chase?"

Cuddy interrupted him, "To let their sordid tales conflict with each other so much that no one knew the truth." She moved to her chair to sit down. "I'm very aware of what is being said. There's the one about Chase rebuffing some guy in a bar and said guy seeking him out. There's one about the two men being escaped prisoners. In that one, you and Chase just got unlucky and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's one that the man was a former patient of House's who held a grudge and was punishing House by attacking his team. There's one that you were sexually assaulted too."

"What?" Foreman asked, appalled at the suggestion.

"Yeah, apparently in that one, Chase put up more of a fight, so that's why they nearly killed him."

Foreman was insulted. He would have put up a fight too. "But why let people get away with spreading this garbage?"

"You can not control gossip. Even if I issued a warning that anyone caught gossiping on hospital grounds would be immediately fired, people would talk outside the hospital. The warning would ignite the gossip. By letting the stories conflict, no one knew what was truth and what was fiction." She sighed heavily. "Now, the new buzz will be exactly what you said. _Dr. Chase was raped. Dr. Foreman said so_."

Foreman closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to make things worse. They just made me so angry."

"I understand," Cuddy told him, sounding truly sympathetic. "Unfortunately, we have more problems."

"I know. I hit a guy."

"Not just that," Cuddy frowned. "I listened to you give your medical opinion about Chase. By virtue of your being on House's team, I let you confide your suspicions about his mental state. By announcing to anyone in earshot that he was, in fact, raped, you revealed confidential medical information. His medical file was the only source of irrefutable evidence of the attack."

"I've never even seen his file," Foreman said, distressed at what he had inadvertently done.

"But you've consulted," Cuddy's face was lined with worry. "Chase will be well within his rights to sue the hospital for breach of confidentiality and hold you personally liable as well."

Foreman curled forward as he propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with both hands.

"I can't make any promises," Cuddy started softly, "I don't know how Chase will react to this development, but he assured me that he had no intention of suing the hospital," she turned her palms upward as she spoke, signifying her uncertainty. "However, he was heavily medicated when he said that. The fact is, he has a solid case should he pursue it."

Foreman put his hands in his lap. "But I was there too. It's my story too. I don't want lies circulating about me."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. "I wish I could assure you that this will all go away, but I can't. At this point, I think the hospital will just have to offer a settlement to protect you and us." The lawyers were working overtime this month.

"I was there," Foreman repeated. It was unfair that telling his own truth could endanger him with breach of confidentiality.

Cuddy pitied the man sitting in front of her. She had believed her threat of revoking his treatment privileges would help him regain focus. She had never expected his anger and hostility to take this turn.

"I was there too. They held me at gunpoint too. They made me _help them_," his voice caught.

"What?" Cuddy asked, panic-stricken by this admission. "What do you mean they made you _help them_?" She wracked her brain for any indication she had been given that Foreman had been forced to participate in the things that were done to Chase. There had been nothing in the medical exam that would have implicated Foreman's involvement. She was not privy to the police reports. House knew the details though. He had read Chase's statements to the police; if Chase had said anything about Foreman's participation, House would have known. How could he not have told her this? Forced participation in a sexual act was sexual assault too.

She tried to calm the administrator within her by reminding herself that Foreman had been given ample opportunity to admit the full extent of his own victimization and had not done so. She had offered him a paid leave of absence similar to the offer made to Chase, which he refused to take. She had ordered him to have therapy, which he had avoided until threatened with suspension. "Please, tell me what happened. The truth." Her words were soaked in desperation. The nurturing part of her nature fought back the businesswoman. "I need to know so I can help you. We have to work this out."

Foreman swallowed the lump forming in his throat and looked away from Cuddy, choosing to focus on the colorful abstract painting on the wall behind them. "They made me tie his arms behind his back." He closed his eyes, recalling the way he had taped Chase's wrists together, wrapping the adhesive strip around and around, hoping that he was not making the restraint so tight that it would be excessively painful. "They made me hold him there while that man…"

Cuddy waited without interrupting. She knew what the next part of the story was. They had swabbed Chase's mouth for evidence, after all.

Foreman changed direction, trying to avoid the most graphic details. "Chase was on his knees and I had to hold him there." He remembered those hands tangled in the blond hair, Chase whimpering _I don't know how_, the eager promise the attacker made to teach him, and the way those hands controlled Chase without any trace of compassion. He had wanted to look away and to cover his ears to block the sounds, but he had kept his hands firmly on the younger man's shoulders, steadying his trembling body, assisting the beast who was abusing him. He tried to forget the way the brutal force had pushed Chase's head against his own crotch, trapping him between the two men. He was haunted by the image of his colleague, forced into submission, tears streaming from his eyes, his body fighting to just catch a breath.

Cuddy felt sick, processing the twisted scene with its implications.

"They had already started to hit him because it was... he was... having trouble cooperating. He couldn't balance with his arms bound that way." Foreman looked to Cuddy, "I was afraid that if I didn't do what they said, they would shoot me or him or both of us or everyone in the waiting room or somehow hurt him even worse." The first quiet tears that Foreman had allow himself to shed since the ordeal slid down his cheeks. "I didn't know what else to do, but obey them." He averted his eyes again, "I helped them," he whispered. "I'm no better than they are."

Cuddy left her chair and approached Foreman. "Don't say that," she said, kneeling in front of him. "You really didn't have a choice. I'm sure they would have made things worse if you had not done as they wanted." She pulled him forward and hugged him.

"I was glad it was him and not me," Foreman whispered, resisting the comfort she offered. "What kind of person does that make me?"

"Normal," Cuddy answered. "No one would want to go through that. It doesn't mean you wished it upon Chase either."

Foreman leaned back into the chair and Cuddy stood again. "It's no wonder he acts so erratically around me," he confessed. "He wasn't victimized by two men. He was victimized by three men." He could not bear to admit to Cuddy that he had turned his back and allowed the men to do whatever they wanted without so much as a word of protest. How had he stood idly by while Chase was strangled? How had he missed that? He would never forgive himself for his own cowardice. If Chase had been killed, he would not have even been paying enough attention to notice.

Cuddy was at a loss for words. The sad truth was Foreman was had been both victim and unwilling assailant. She could see that it was tormenting him and could only imagine how it tormented Chase. Did his association with Foreman make it easier for him to be bound and held by him in that position? Or had it been even more of a violating for Chase to have a friend take part in the crimes committed against him? She had no idea what the complications were, but she was certain that somehow it had to cloud his ability to cope with what had happened. It had certainly affected every step Foreman had taken since. She shook her head, trying to find the right thing to say. "I don't think Chase would blame you," she offered.

"He should. If I hadn't called him for a consult because some squirrelly patient was annoying me, none of this would have happened."

"You could not have predicted what would happen."

"But I knew they were specifically there looking for Chase and I knew the guy was off his rocker. If I hadn't been frustrated or impatient, I would have seen them as the threat they were. I should have called security instead of Chase."

"Just stop," Cuddy told him. "You're looking for ways to make this your fault and it's not. Is it Chase's fault for having dinner at the White Dove Café one night? Should he have just let the guy die instead of saving his wasted life? If Chase hadn't saved him in the first place, none of us would be in this mess."

Foreman's head snapped up, stunned by what she was saying. "He couldn't _not_ try to help the guy. It's what Chase does."

"Exactly," Cuddy told him. "You wouldn't have denied that man care any more than he would have. It's unfortunate for both of you that he and his accomplice were unstable. But it's the _fault_ of _neither_ of you. We all take the risk of encountering unbalanced people every day that we're in these jobs."

Foreman nodded. His logic told him she was right, but her words could not erase all his doubts and guilt.

"You have got to continue to see Dr. Johnson on a regular basis," Cuddy instructed.

Foreman nodded. "I know."

"At some point, he may want to see the two of you together. I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to see the whole department," she said with half of a laugh.

"Will I still be around to see Dr. Johnson?" Foreman asked, skeptically.

"I'm going to suspend you for two weeks. You hit a coworker and, in your case, I'm sure the person you hit will file a complaint."

Naturally, only House could get off with no ramifications from punching an employee.

"Thank you," Foreman said. He realized his penalty could have been much worse. He could have been suspended for a longer period of time or fired altogether.

"Dr. Foreman, if you fail to comply with Dr. Johnson's treatment or if you verbally or physically attack another member of this staff, the consequences will be severe." Cuddy's voice was stern. "There's no wiggle room in this arrangement."

He nodded. "I understand. Nothing like this will happen again."

"It better not," Cuddy told him. "Go home and take a break. I'll have Dr. Johnson contact you about your next appointment."

Foreman nodded.

Cuddy watched him leave. There were so many problems to deal with that she was not sure where to start. Two of her doctors were incapacitated.

Patients were not getting the care they deserved because the staff was too distracted by current events to focus entirely on the work. Spirits were sagging. Few people actually felt safe, despite the increased security. She never should have added notes about Foreman's observations to Chase's file. She should have demanded that Foreman take some time off instead of believing him when he said he would cope better if he could focus on work. It was foolish to think a person could go through that kind of ordeal and actually focus on anything else. The throbbing pain in her temples only magnified as she considered all the mistakes and all the damage control that needed to be done. She did not consider the consequences as she reached for the paperweight her aunt had given her so many years ago and flung it across the room. She regretted it before it even had time to land on the floor with a crash, shattering into innumerable tiny fragments.


	32. Chapter 32

"You think you can drive this?" Chase asked with a twinkle in his eye. He fastened his seatbelt and dangled the keys above the center console.

After adjusting the driver's side seat to fit her shorter legs, Cameron took the jingling keys. "My brother has an Explorer too," she told him.

"But does he let you _drive_ it?" Chase asked.

Cameron cut her eyes sideways to glare, "No," she answered with a pout.

"It's bigger than that sporty little Miata you drive," he warned her.

"And almost as red," she said, dismissing his concerns, as she started the engine. The radio was blaring WPLJ's traffic report, and both reached for the volume control. Cameron turned the radio off because that particular DJ had always grated on her nerves.

"Just don't back into anything," Chase instructed. He tugged at the strap of the seatbelt. It barely touched the base of his neck, but he found it uncomfortable. It stubbornly snapped back into place, locking itself tightly into position.

"Please. If anyone should be worried, it's the person stuck with you driving. I seem to recall you trying for the _wrong_ side of the road before."

"I just did that to freak you out," Chase shrugged, recalling an early adventure in breaking and entering when he and Cameron had gone to a patient's house and he had pulled out of their driveway onto the "wrong" side of the road. "There was nothing coming anyway."

"That makes it loads better," Cameron scoffed playfully.

"We should crack the windows to let in some fresh air. It's kind of stale from being closed up for so long," Chase commented as he sniffed the offending odor. Giving up on adjusting the safety belt, he scooted closer to the console.

"Are you nuts? It's too cold outside to drive around with the windows down," she argued, reaching to turn on the heater. "Get a Yankee Candle air freshener. That'll take care of it."

Chase frowned. "I don't want my car to smell like magnolias or cucumbers or any of that crap. I want it to not smell at all." He hated overpowering fragrances. They reminded him of his mother's descent from functional drinker to reclusive drunk. Before she stopped venturing into public altogether, she had a bad habit of wearing way too much perfume to cover the smell of liquor that seemed to emanate from her very pores. He remembered feeling trapped when he had to ride somewhere while she drove. The perfume was so overpowering that it was hard to breathe and her careless attitude made him anxious every time they neared a traffic light or she tried to pass another vehicle. "Besides, they kill my allergies," he added.

"Fine. We'll ride back to your place with the windows down and the heat blaring. Makes sense."

"That's what I thought!" Chase answered in a defiant tone that was offset by his laughter.

"You're in a good mood," Cameron noted, remembering that he had been laughing when she returned from the lab.

"I don't have AIDS," he said gleefully. He knew he still had to wait for the confirmatory test, but the odds of it being positive were next to none. Statistics were very much in his favor.

"What were you and Foreman talking about that was so funny?" she inquired.

"Nothing," he answered. His mood shifted immediately. Looking back, he was not sure why he was so amused by the idea of Foreman having a notebook. It scared him to think that he was not really entertained at all. Maybe Foreman was right and he was crazy. He certainly had his moments of acting insane.

Cameron could sense the switch in his mood, so she changed the subject. She was so happy that he was talking with her instead of yelling at her for her for revealing the information he had shared with her about his mother that she did not want to press any issue and risk messing up whatever it was that was happening between them. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the SUV type," she said. It was not as if she were unaware of Chase's vehicle. She had been parking next to it for three years; but they had never discussed such things before, so it was a safe topic.

"If you tell me you would have pictured me in a KIA, I'll never speak to you again," he warned her, his demeanor brightening.

"Hmm," Cameron paused as if she were giving it a lot of thought. "Nah, more of a BMW or Lexus or Mercedes kind of guy. I didn't think you foreigners went for the gas guzzling eco-unfriendly types."

"I promise to get a flex fuel when I upgrade the model," he replied. "I don't like little cars. My first car was a truck. My grandmother drove a Jeep," he told her proudly. Valerie was the one person from his family that he did not mind discussing. "It was ancient by the time I really got to drive, but that's what I used to learn. I've never liked being close to the ground." He left out the part about his father telling him he was an embarrassment because he would be seen in public in such a monstrosity as a bright red 1983 model Jeep. "She started giving me lessons when I was barely old enough to see over the steering wheel while sitting in her lap," he laughed, remembering that his feet did not even touch the pedals, but Valerie had let him steer. "We never told my parents."

"Your grandmother that made the quilt?" Cameron asked. She figured it was a stupid question. Rowan Chase's parents had probably never immigrated to Australia. It had to be his mother's mother.

Chase was taken aback by the question, wondering how she knew about his quilt. Then he realized that she must have read the stitched message when she and Foreman gathered things from his apartment. "Yes. She's the only grandmother I knew."

"She quilted… and drove a Jeep?"

"Yep."

"That's interesting. Kind of an unlikely pairing of skills."

"She was a firecracker. She stayed busy outside when it was warm, and busy inside when it was cold or wet. I don't think I ever saw her idle."

"Did you get to see her a lot?"

"I practically lived with her when I was little," Chase answered immediately, then regretted his openness.

"Oh." Cameron held back her questions about his mother's addiction and if that contributed to the time Chase spent with his grandmother. She was cautious of sending him into a depressed mood. "I'm putting the windows up!" she told him. The cool air was keeping them from getting as warm as she would like to be.

"What were you grandparents like?" Chase asked Cameron before she had a chance to delve further into his family history.

"My Nana made me a quilt too," she told him. "But I bet she's never driven a truck in her life. She has a Buick the size of an oil tanker. I didn't see any of my grandparents very often growing up though. My mom's parents live in Missouri and my dad's parents did the very _en vogue _thing of moving to Florida when they could retire. I saw them at Christmas or Thanksgiving or maybe a week during the summer."

"Any of them still living?"

"Dad's dad and both on my Mom's side."

"We should go to Missouri then," Chase stated, matter-of-factly.

"We should?" Cameron asked, surprised by the suggestion.

Chase felt reprimanded by her question. "Sorry. I'm saying stupid things because I'm glad I'm not going to die from a crappy disease."

"Oh, don't be sorry! I just thought you were mad at me about my stupid big mouth. I'm surprised you'd want to go anywhere with me."

"Funny, I thought you were mad at me about my stupid big mouth," Chase repeated her phrasing. House would have no idea that they had almost had sex again if he had not jumped to the wrong conclusions. Besides, despite what Dr. Johnson said about standing up for himself when he was angry, he was not going to risk losing a friendship just to appease what was left of his pride. He would get over it.

"I don't have any right to be mad, unless it's at myself. I should have--"

"Yeah, yeah," Chase interrupted, clearly not wanting to stroll down that memory lane. "So, do you want to go to Missouri to see your grandparents? I mean, if you even like them."

"Yeah, that would be nice. I haven't seen them in three years," Cameron admitted. She thought it sad that he would question whether or not she even liked her own family. The more she got to know him, the more she realized how truly the word _broken_ described his childhood home.

"So, when do you want to leave?" Chase asked. Comfortable that Cameron was not going to wreck his Explorer, he leaned back in his seat and yawned. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for her answer.

"I'm not sure," she responded. She had no idea if Chase really had a yearning to go to Missouri or if this was some kind of residual of the euphoric mood he had shown in the office. Even though he still had leave time remaining, she was sure that he could not skip out on his therapy sessions with Dr. Johnson. It was safer for both of them if she did not commit to a timeframe.

"We can see that Arch thing," Chase suggested, sleepily.

"Sure," she agreed. Before she reached the next traffic light, he was snoozing. She heard the steady breathing and glanced over to see his head resting against the back of the seat. She looked back to the road, knowing they would reach his apartment in a few minutes.

She felt like cursing when she realized traffic was coming to a stand-still. There was construction creating an obstacle ahead. She sighed, accepting that she might be stuck creeping along at a snail's pace for half an hour or more. Less than five minutes had passed when she considered waking Chase to keep her company, but she reconsidered. Instead, she turned the radio on softly enough that it would not bother her sleeping passenger. Maybe if she had listened to the traffic report earlier, they could have avoided this slowdown. She glanced from Chase to the road around her and back to him.

Something about his behavior did not feel right to her. He had gone from an anxiety attack to euphoric in a matter of twenty minutes--before she had given him the test results. Now that the emotional high was wearing off, he had fallen asleep in almost no time. She figured the emotional roller coaster had exhausted him, but worried that the extreme reactions were indicative of worse problems than she or House wanted to admit Chase had. _He's not suicidal_, she reminded herself. She may not have been accurate that he was adjusting exceptionally well, but that did not necessitate that Foreman was accurate that he was going to hurt himself either.

Traffic came to a dead stop. She was glad to see the gas gauge was near the full mark. She watched Chase while he slept, studying his features as if watching his face closely enough could somehow show her the man behind it. She knew he had had a taxing day. While she had no idea what he and Johnson had discussed, she was certain that having to relive any part of what had happened to him was toilsome.

She had never personally been through anything this traumatizing. Even her husband's death had not made her behave erratically. She had cried for a week, hurt like hell for a while, thrown herself back into her studies, and then started to heal. Though it still hurt if she thought about it, the pain had wholly consumed her for only a short time. Maybe it was because she had always known it was coming. She had never let herself rest in the idea of a secure home or a future family with the man. She had known her marriage would be cut short before she had even said, "I do." She wondered how she would react if something like this had happened to her. Would she become reclusive like her friend Colleen had? She imagined that Chase would have shut himself off from the world if given the choice. She wondered if he would have even sought medical attention if Foreman had not alerted them to what had happened. If it had been something that he could have kept clandestine, she had no doubt in her mind that that it would have remained a secret.

She looked back to the road. There was no improvement there. Her attention was drawn back to Chase as he suddenly began to gasp for breath. His arms flailed as he let out a strangled cry. He took a deep, jagged breath and looked around frantically.

"Chase?" Cameron reached out to him. "Are you okay?"

He batted her hand away, "Let go!" he demanded. He shook his head and backed away from her, pressing himself into the passenger door. He coughed violently while rubbing his throat with his right hand, then pulled at the collar of his shirt. With his left hand, he released the seatbelt and it zipped back into its not-in-use position. That immediately sent the vehicle's warning device into a series of annoying high-pitched dinging sounds.

"Put your seatbelt back on!" Cameron demanded. She panicked as the image of him jumping from the SUV and into a traffic jam leapt into her mind. He was just disoriented enough to do something that dangerous. "Now!"

Chase ignored her, but calmed down as he realized that he did not have to struggle to breathe.

"Chase, you were just dreaming," Cameron told him in a low, calm voice. "You have to put your seatbelt back on. We're on the highway." As if to reinforce her demand, the warning system began another series of shrill beeps. She was convinced that Ford had patented the single most annoying sound in human history.

Chase recognized his surroundings as the dream started to fade, drowned out by what was real. The specific details might blur, but he knew the content. It was the same as what occupied his waking thoughts: jumbled images and sensations of the cold, sterile clinic; the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple; Foreman's hands gripping his shoulders while the tip of Joe's penis was pressed against his lips, then slammed into his unwilling mouth. He had woken up gasping for breath so many times that he thought he should be used to the panic. But it never got easier to remember those hands wrapped tightly around his neck and the struggle between living and dying. No matter how much he tried to move on, he could not. Even when his own mind was not occupied in self-torture, the people surrounding him would not let him forget.

Cameron watched as his eyes darted from one aspect of his surroundings to another. He reminded her of a caged animal, backed into a corner, and ready to come out fighting. Still, she felt no threat from him. Chase would not hurt her. She trusted that it simply was not in his nature.

As he accepted that he was not in immediate danger, he obeyed her command to buckle his seatbelt. It was so uncomfortable to him that he slipped the chest strap over his shoulder, allowing only the waist strap to touch him.

Cameron knew better than to make an issue of his wearing the belt improperly. "Are you okay?" she asked.

Chase nodded, avoiding eye contact. He turned away from her and stared out the window at the lanes full of cars. He swallowed several times, trying to keep his throat from feeling closed. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

"Chase?" Cameron said his name tentatively, and reached out to pat his shoulder.

He rolled his shoulder just enough to make her hand fall away.

"What were you dreaming?" she asked boldly, determined to stop him from falling into silence.

Chase did not respond.

Cameron was suddenly irritated with him. She was trying to help and he was sulking over a bad dream. Wallowing in self pity was not his style. "Tell me what you were dreaming," she urged. Her tone was just a step away from a demand.

"Same thing I always dream," Chase answered, never turning to face her. "Joe's choking me while Foreman… never mind."

Cameron was grateful that the traffic jam showed no signs of moving. "While Foreman what?" she prodded.

"He… holds me in place," Chase answered softly.

Cameron was puzzled, imagining Foreman holding Chase still while Joe strangled him. "Why would Foreman help him while he was choking you?" she asked.

"Not with his hands," Chase whispered.

"What do you mean?" she asked, shaking her head in confusion. She saw from Chase's reflection in the window that his lashes were weighed down with unshed tears. He kept swallowing. "Oh my god," she gasp quietly, covering her mouth with her hand, as she realized what he meant. She closed her eyes in a brief moment of denying her realization. "Oh, god, Chase… I'm sorry," she offered. She did not know why this was coming as such a shock to her. She supposed she had never let herself consider that he had been forced into that act of submission. She reached out to him again, this time softly patting his leg. He did not move away from that touch. "I'm so sorry."

She wondered how she could have been irritated with his sulking. Did she expect him to not be depressed? Was he supposed to be flooded with those memories and wake up jubilant and carefree? It was as if no matter what layer of hurt he allowed her to see, there was always something else lurking deeper.

Chase shrugged. "Not your fault. Sorry I fell asleep," he apologized to her. _Sorry I had another stupid dream,_ he added silently.

"It's okay. You're tired." She was mindful of the traffic though she focused her attention on him.

"There's always some excuse," he answered. "I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm over-medicated. I'm crazy. I _don't_ have a free pass to be rude," His father had taught him that it was poor manners to sleep while someone else drove and he had never quite stopped believing it. "I'm not going to turn into that," he declared, remembering the list of "normal" reactions he read online. He weighed his own symptoms. The precipitating event was the equivalent of catching a rare disease and it appeared that his illness was running its projected course. He saw it clearly. He had the sleep disorder, the mood disturbance, the sexual dysfunction. If he looked at his recent habits rationally, he would even have to admit he had problems with his appetite that could not be contributed only to his throat injuries. So, if he were following the pattern of the illness, what was the projected outcome? Was it going to be fatal if he did not find a remedy?

"Turn into what?" Cameron asked. One of the most striking differences in Chase since the attack was that, while he was sometimes more forthcoming with personal information, he was much more likely to express himself without clarity. To Cameron, it signified how jumbled his thoughts must be.

"One of those people," he answered, thinking about _truckdrivingman,_ _Shriner#12, _and the other men whose stories he had read. "I'm not going to stay like this forever. I'm not going wake up choking because of nightmares ten years from now. I'm not going to hide and use this as an excuse. I'm going to get better," he turned away from the window to face her. "I just don't know how."

Cameron felt a lump in her throat as she saw the honesty in his eyes. He was lost. She could tell that Chase was looking to her for help, for hope. She was proud of him for refusing to surrender to the pain, but she did not know how to make him better either. "We'll figure it out. I promise," she vowed with no idea if that was a promise she could keep.


	33. Chapter 33

Chase and Cameron arrived at his apartment building and she parked his Explorer in his assigned parking space. The one next to it was empty as always. Each apartment was allotted two spaces and, of course, Chase only needed the one.

They managed to make it into his building and to his floor without encountering Mrs. Giordano or any other curious neighbors. Cameron was glad for that. She thought Chase's emotions were too raw for him to have to attempt to put on a mask for anyone.

The first thing he did was adjust his thermostat. It was about fifty-five degrees in the apartment since his central heating unit had been off while he was not home. "Sorry it's so cold in here," he apologized. "Be right back."

Cameron watched him as he disappeared into his bedroom, but he quickly returned with a couple of blankets. "This will help," he said, offering her an incredibly soft, thick blanket.

"Where did this come from?" she asked, admiring pattern which brought to mind an abstract work of art in black, white, red, and gray streaks of color. It certainly was not a Wal-Mart special.

"New Zealand," he answered. "Alpaca wool," he said, anticipating that her next question.

"This is so soft," she said, brushing a corner against her cheek. She unfolded it and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"The heater works pretty fast," Chase promised. He unfurled another blanket that was a deep orange and white plaid and wrapped it around himself.

Cameron tried not to snicker at his unusual taste in colors and the mental image of an orange and white plaid alpaca that flitted through her mind. _Chase isn't the only one who's tired_, she thought. Traffic jams were taxing.

"I want to make sure everything is okay," he told her. "We don't have to stay long if you don't want to."

"I'm not in any hurry," she answered. She supposed they were just going to get a cab back to the hospital… or, more likely, separate cabs for separate locations. "I think you enjoyed spending some time here the other day. We can just sit and talk or watch TV or something for a while."

"Um," Chase considered that. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the last time they were alone here.

"I'm not going to jump you," Cameron promised. She made herself comfortable on his sofa, kicking off her shoes and curling up in the blanket.

Chase frowned. He did not like the idea of her thinking about their previous almost-intimate encounter. "I know," he answered defensively. "I'm going to check on… stuff," he told her, going back into his bedroom.

He thought it would be a good idea to clean out the refrigerator because there were items that may not have been bad when Cameron and Foreman were there, but certainly were by now. And he hated to even think about it, but there was a very full litter box that needed cleaning. First, he was going to check the pipes in his bathroom. He should run some water through them and flush the toilet, at least. The water in it was probably stagnant by now.

But before he tackled anything, he found that his own bed looked incredibly appealing. He had been sleeping in a recliner for weeks. Though the recliner was comfortable, he missed his own mattress. He heard the TV come on in the living room, and was glad that Cameron had found a way to amuse herself while he investigated his home. He started to go into the master bathroom for a moment, but decided he would lie down for just five minutes. He grabbed the pillow that was left when his coworkers gathered his things and stretched out on top of the comforter. He fluffed the blanket upward and let it fall gently over his body before tucking the edge of it under his chin. His apartment was still too cold. He exhaled contentedly as he sank into the thick memory foam mattress. Even this pillow--the one he did not usually use--felt luxurious. He savored the firm bed, reminding himself that he was only allowed four more minutes. He had polished his internal clock through medical school. If he knew he needed to be awake by six in the morning, he would wake up at five-fifty-five. His alarm clock, which was within arm's reach from the bed, was rendered useless by his own perception of time. As he drifted, he realized was going to have to move back into his own place soon. He missed his bed. And he could not stay with House forever.

After fifteen minutes of watching a rerun of _Ally McBeal_, Cameron had gone to Chase's bedroom to see what was keeping him. He was sleeping so soundly that she had decided to turn off the light and just let him sleep. She worried that his sleeping was a symptom of depression, but reasoned that he could also have been wiped out by the stressful day. One thing was certain: she was not going to leave him when she knew the kind of nightmares he was having. There was still the question of whether his nightmares were from the PTSD or linked to the ARVs. She hoped it was the medication. That regimen took several weeks, but PTSD could last for years. She had contented herself with the television, then decided to get something delivered for dinner.

There was a knock on the door. Cameron turned down the volume on the television and went to answer, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. The apartment was a comfortable temperature now, but she was enjoying the blanket too much to let it go. She grabbed the money she had taken out of her purse to pay for the food and opened the door, holding thirty dollars. She was surprised to find both House and Cuddy instead of a pizza delivery boy.

Cuddy took in the site of Cameron wrapped in the blanket and started to blush. "Are we interrupting something?" she asked.

House smirked, "Way to go, Grasshopper," he said so low that neither of the ladies understood him.

Cameron scowled. "Just an _Ally McBeal _double feature," she answered. "Chase is asleep," she told them, not offering to let them into the apartment until they stated their business. She suddenly felt very territorial. She wanted to take care of Chase herself.

"Oh, did you wear him out?" House asked, pushing his way into the apartment and looking around. "More coordinated than I expected," he mused aloud.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," Cameron snapped. She laid the blanket on the back of the couch to show them that she was still completely dressed. "He had a trying day. He fell asleep on the way over here and zonked out as soon as he could put his head on the pillow."

"Wake him up. His day's about to get worse," House told her.

"Why?" she asked, concern overtaking her defensive attitude. She closed the door behind them after Cuddy also entered the room.

"We need to speak to him," Cuddy told her. "Could you please get him for us?"

"What happened?" Cameron asked again, not making a move toward the bedroom.

"Like we're going to tell you," House bit.

There was another knock on the door. Cameron huffed, then turned around to answer. A pimple-faced teenage boy stood holding a square insulated bag. "Allison Cameron?" he asked. "I've got your order," he continued after she nodded. He pulled out two medium sized pizza boxes, two Styrofoam dishes, and a chilled two-liter bottle of Pepsi.

"Keep the change," Cameron said, trading the money for the food.

The delivery boy thanked her and left. She balanced the stack of food containers with one arm, held the Pepsi in the other, and shoved the door closed with her hip before taking the food to the table and setting it down. "Thanks for helping," she said as House and Cuddy watched her balancing act.

"Good timing on our part," House told Cuddy, inhaling the smell of the fresh pizza. She frowned at him.

"Get Chase. We should make him eat before we talk to him," he suggested.

"Why put it off?" Cuddy asked.

"He sulks and refuses to eat when he's upset." House continued to investigate the apartment. He noticed what was not there as much as what was. There were absolutely no photos of Chase's family in the living area. He found it interesting that Chase would display a photo of a big rock, but none of his parents.

Cuddy was surprised by his statement. Her surprise came from equal parts picturing Chase sulking and refusing to eat and picturing House noticing and actually looking out for him.

"What is going to upset him?" Cameron asked.

"Me beating you senseless with my cane is going to upset him," House threatened, pointing the curved handle toward her. "Never mind. I'll go get him," he declared, ambling toward the open door of the master bedroom.

He flipped the light switch as he walked inside. "Chase," he called. "Rise and shine!"

Chase covered his eyes with his forearm and grunted.

House ripped the orange and white blanket away from him and Chase patted the bed, trying to find it. "Time to wake up," House ordered.

Chase opened one eye, squinting. "What?" he groaned.

"Out of bed." House directed. He realized that Chase should definitely not be put on call until he finished the course of ARVs. They made him entirely too groggy. "Code blue!" he yelled.

Chase jumped out of bed and took a step toward his mentor before realizing that he was in his own apartment. "Wait… where?" he looked around the room. "House, what the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"Is that any way to welcome me into your home after you've been sacked out on my sofa for two weeks?"

"Recliner," Chase clarified.

"Your damn cat is on my couch," House told him.

"Sorry," Chase said. "I'm a little disoriented." He yawned as if to emphasize how sleepy he was.

"We need to talk. But we can have pizza first," House offered. "What do you bet Wilson is standing outside my door with Thai take out in one hand and a _Kung Fu _video in the other?" he said, chuckling. "Should we tell him we moved the party and invited girls?"

"Girls?" Chase repeated, following House out of the bedroom.

"Has it really been that long?" House asked.

Chase did not answer. He was startled to find that Cuddy was also in his living room. "What's wrong?" he asked, his heart sinking. It was strange enough that House had followed him home. Cuddy's presence meant something terrible had either happened or was about to happen.

"Cameron bought pizza," House said, walking toward the table.

The women both looked at him suspiciously. Cuddy was definitely projecting her serious business aura.

"Why are you here?" Chase asked again, feeling what he clearly recognized as the first twinges of panic in his stomach. He inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to stave off an attack and hoping that no one would notice his defense mechanism.

"We need to speak with you about something," Cuddy said. She was startled by his voice which was still raspier than before the attack. Given the extent of the damage, it might be months before his voice returned to the way it sounded pre-injury. "Is there anywhere we could talk privately?" she asked, glancing unconsciously at Cameron.

Cameron looked offended and angry.

Chase followed Cuddy's eyes to Cameron and asked, "How bad is it?"

Cuddy tilted her head slightly without answering. "We should sit down." She turned to Cameron, "Could you wait--"

"Let her stay," Chase said. He did not see much of a point in making her leave the room. Odds were that she would know whatever it was soon anyway. "She's been really good to me. Judging from your expression, I think I'm going to need a friend."

Cameron smiled and took Chase's hand in her own, leading him to the couch. She felt vindicated somehow since Cuddy wanted her to leave and Chase did not.

"Pizza?" House said pitifully from the table.

Cuddy rolled her eyes at him, then turned her back and went to the living area. She sat down in the chair adjacent to the sofa, which only left room for House to sit with Chase and Cameron or else drag over a chair from the dining area. He opted to sit next to Chase who was in the middle of the sofa. Cameron was furthest from Cuddy and she possessively kept her right hand intertwined with Chase's left.

As ridiculous of a thought as it might have been, Chase hoped that his apartment did not reek of cat box odor. His boss and his boss's boss were both there and that was not the impression he wanted his home to leave. He was a little perplexed by Cameron's clinginess. If it were not such an absurd notion, he would have sworn she was marking him as her territory for Cuddy's sake. He looked from one woman to the other and shook his head at the insanity of that idea.

"There was an incident at the hospital today," Cuddy started.

Chase's stomach turned and the color drained from his face. "They came back?" he asked. He had been at the hospital today. If Joe and Dave had come back it meant they were watching him.

"What?" Cuddy asked, slightly confused by the question. She quickly realized he meant the men who attacked him. "No. No, that's not it," she assured him. It should not have, but it surprised her that Chase's immediate thoughts were of his attackers returning. She hoped that he would be able to get over those fears so that they would not paralyze him when he came back to work. It would be so much easier if the police could actually do their job and arrest the miscreants.

"Foreman punched out an intern," House interrupted. He was certain that Cuddy had planned a whole speech about employee relations or something equally pointless. But Chase did not deserve to be jerked around when he was obviously jumping to worst-case scenarios.

Chase and Cameron both were shocked by this announcement.

"Why?" Cameron asked.

Cuddy glowerd at House. She wanted to soften the upcoming blow by talking to Chase for a minute or so before breaking the news.

"He overheard a conversation," Cuddy started. "They were discussing rumors about you, Dr. Chase."

Chase looked away from her and toward the floor. His cheeks started to feel warm. Cameron was suddenly patting his arm softly and he wanted to jerk it away from her, but forced himself not to do so, lest he hurt her feelings.

"What were they saying?" Cameron voiced Chase's question.

"One said he had seen you outside of Dr. Johnson's office and they made some other crass remarks."

Chase bit his lip, unsure of what response he was supposed to have to this information. Treading this ground was almost unbearable. If other staff members were saying he was nuts because he was seeing a psychiatrist, they were not too far from the truth.

"Like what?" Cameron asked with a hint of protective anger showing in her voice.

"There's a story that the two guys tried to pick Chase up in a bar, and he turned them down, so they tracked him to the hospital. One of the interns said that Chase looked gay and that made Foreman go ballistic." House divulged.

Chase looked to House, "What happened?"

"Foreman punched the guy, knocked him across the hallway, broke his nose, busted his glasses."

"Foreman defended me?" Chase asked, stupefied by the news. That did not seem so bad after all.

House nodded. "He warned everyone within earshot that he'd kick their asses if anyone implied that what happened to you was anything other than rape."

For a moment Chase wondered why House and Cuddy were so austere about this. Then the whole picture dawned on him. Cuddy had told him before that rumors were circulating but no one knew the truth. Foreman had confirmed to a group of witnesses that he had been raped, leaving no room for denial. He felt like all the air was slowly being sucked out of his lungs.

"He told them that you'd been held at gunpoint and that they threatened to kill him and other people in the clinic if you didn't cooperate." House paused a moment. "And that your only prior contact with the men was to save one of their sorry lives." He watched Chase's face as he told him what had been disclosed. He waited for a response, but Chase simply stared at him.

Chase said nothing. He did not even blink. Foreman had certainly said a lot in the minute or two it took for this to happen.

"Chase?" Cuddy asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at him. She was pleased that House had taken over the story. Chase always seemed to react better to him than anyone else. "Is he okay?" she asked House.

"You need to breathe," House reminded the young man. He almost reached out to pat his arm, but was apprehensive about the possibility that Chase might lunge forward and cling to him crying again.

Chase closed his eyes and inhaled. He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, covering his face with both hands.

Cameron exchanged concerned glances with both House and Cuddy. They all seemed to be on edge, awaiting Chase's reaction. Cameron reached toward him to rub his back, but House caught her hand before she could begin.

House held his palm up to her to tell her to stop, then pressed his finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet. He feared that if Cameron started comforting him, Chase might be left with the impression that this made things exponentially worse.

Chase had several thoughts swirling at once. Images of the attack itself were never far from his mind and this brought him memories of the cold metal of the gun pressed against him and how he had felt helpless knowing that so many other people were in danger. He saw the faces of the staff members he had passed on his way to the diagnostics office that morning. He remembered the panic and shame he felt under their surveillance. He thought of Foreman and his irrational nightmares about the man. Then he pictured Foreman angered by gossiping interns, mad enough to strike one of them. That played itself out in his mind several times: Foreman defending him. It was almost unbelievable.

Chase was aware that the others were watching him carefully. Their scrutiny was like a heavy weight pressing him down. He wanted to walk away and be alone for a while. He looked up and made eye contact with Cuddy. "Is Foreman okay?"

Cuddy let go of the breath she had been holding and nodded. "He's fine. I suspended him for two weeks, but he's fine." She would never have expected those to be the first words out of Chase's mouth after the story had been told.

Cameron patted Chase's back, "Are _you_ okay?" she asked.

Chase turned to her and nodded. "This is… not the worst thing that could happen," he told her. He had to remind himself of that.

"But it's exactly what you didn't want to happen," Cuddy reminded him, shocked by his acceptance. She wondered if he were putting on a brave front for the benefit of his audience. "Are you sure you're fine with it?"

"Yeah," he answered, looking down at the floor. "Maybe the truth is okay," he said quietly, trying to find a reason to accept it. Maybe Foreman had done them all a favor. Perhaps, if the truth were known, the speculation and rumors and questions would stop. Spreading a truth was not nearly as appealing to baser human instincts as delighting in forbidden knowledge. "Maybe it will stop," he said.

The other three could not be sure what he meant would stop.

"You're allowed get angry, you know," House said, finding Chase's composure alarming.

Cuddy was bothered that House would encourage Chase to be angry instead of praising his composure. If Chase were angry, he would be far more likely to press until he found that his medical history had been blabbed by someone who had also been credited with observations on his case.

"No," Chase answered. House was starting to sound like Dr. Johnson now.

"Yes," House responded. "You can."

Chase looked down. _I'm not angry_, he told himself. _This is not the worst thing that's happened to me_, he repeated silently.

"Foreman told everyone within earshot that you were _raped_. He didn't sugarcoat it. Don't sit there and pretend like it's no big deal."

Chase turned to House, "What am I supposed to do?" he asked, desperately. "It's done. It can't be undone, can it?"

"You're not a punching bag, Chase. You don't have to accept everything that someone dishes out to you."

"Unless it's you?" Chase snapped.

"You don't have to take it from me. You choose to."

"I want to keep my job," Chase answered.

"So you're willing to let it slide that people you work with and random strangers know your personal business?"

"Shut up!" Chase raised his voice. House's words were igniting the feelings of shame that often threatened to overpower him. But whatever fight was sparked inside him dimmed immediately. "I'm doing the best I can," he added softly.

"You're letting people walk all over you. You don't have to accept this stoically."

"It's who I am," Chase argued meekly.

"It's who your worthless, alcoholic mother trained you to be."

"Don't talk about my mother," he warned, his meekness disappearing as the flame rose again.

"Because she was such a lovely woman?" House goaded.

"Yes," Chase answered through gritted teeth. "Not another word."

"Is she the one who taught you to lay down and take it no matter what?"

"House!" Cuddy tried to interrupt. He was poking his nose into things that clearly were not his business and had nothing to do with the current situation. To her, it looked like House was actually trying to provoke Chase.

Lay down and take it. The words repeated in his mind. "I didn't have a choice!" he explained. "They were going to kill Foreman." 

"Why are you doing this?" Cameron asked House, while trying to pull Chase to her to hug him; but he resisted, shuffling away from her. He pulled his legs to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. She thought House should have known that a phrase like that could trigger Chase's memories of the attack. Voicing his thoughts about the threat made against Foreman and his resistance to her touch convinced her that he was quickly retreating into that dark place again.

"Because this is not normal," House answered, motioning his hand toward Chase who appeared to be crumpling before his eyes. "Look at him. No one should be this accepting of whatever shit life hands them."

"Nothing about this is normal," Cameron argued. "All things considered, Chase is handling this--"

"Like he doesn't know that he deserves better," House interrupted her statement to finish it the way he wanted. "What the hell did your mother do to you to make you think that you don't deserve better than this?"

"What do you want me to do?" Chase asked him, his voice muffled because he was curled into himself, his forehead resting against his knees..

"I want you get pissed enough to stand up for yourself."

"I don't know how!" Chase admitted. He knew how to stifle his anger and how to shove it into a hiding place in his mind until he could refuse to acknowledge it at all.

"Of course you know how to get mad. What about when you found out I knew your father was dying and hadn't told you?" House considered this. "Actually, you sucked at getting mad then too. The only reason for you not to be mad is if you think that you deserve all of this. Did the Catholic church warp your mind that badly? You don't have any cheeks left to turn."

Chase did not answer.

"House, stop it!" Cuddy barked. House only glared at her while she silently mouthed, Look at him.

"No, not even the church can screw someone up this much," House muttered with distaste.

"What am I supposed to do?" Chase raised his head to talk to House. "Get pissed and scream and throw things go beat up Foreman?" Chase asked his question earnestly. His eyes were wide as he implored House for the answer. "Would that make you happy?"

House tilted his head, eyes boring into Chase. "She beat you."

Chase swallowed without verbalizing a response. He felt like House was looking right into his soul.

"Your mother convinced you that you deserve to be hurt."

"You don't know when to stop," Chase answered, keeping eye contact.

"House, that's enough," Cuddy interrupted. This was clearly none of her business, nor Cameron's.

Cameron watched the other three. She felt ill, thinking that House might be correct with his accusation. Who was she kidding? House was always right and it made tears spring to her eyes. There went another layer.

"I'm right," House declared, pleased with himself. Suddenly a lot of things about Chase made sense.

"You son of a bitch. I'm not a puzzle." Chase jumped up and started to walk away, but House also stood and reached out to stop him.

"You're not denying it." He grabbed the sleeve of Chase's shirt to keep him from going further.

Neither of them noticed as Cuddy coerced a reluctant Cameron to follow her into the hallway.

"It wasn't that bad," Chase said, compelled to minimize his mother's actions. "She only hit me when she was drunk. She didn't realize what she was doing," he justified. "It's not like she broke my arm or anything." He had seen the results of what abusive parents could do when he worked in the ER and ICU. What his mother had done to him was nothing in comparison, absolutely nothing. "She loved me."

House shook his head. "You're explaining it so rationally… like you actually believe it," he paused. "She was drunk more than she wasn't."

"You don't know that," Chase argued. "Maybe she only got drunk on weekends," he offered.

House looked at him with suspicion. "Do you think you have to ignore your anger or you'll turn into an abusive drunk like her?"

It was not just his mother. Chase could actually pinpoint the moment he decided that anger was a "very bad thing." It was a simplistic assessment, but "a very bad thing" was way he still thought of it.

His family had been eating dinner in their formal dining room with exquisite china and crystal. Chase had been five years old and he did not like whatever the green stuff on the small plate was and he did not really like the fish on his bigger plate either. He thought it smelled funny. So, he sat there kicking his legs back and forth, picking at his food, and not really paying much attention to his parents until they got louder and louder.

He set his fork on his plate and started watching them yell at one another, like watching a verbal tennis match. His mother stood up and threw her glass across the room. He watched it hit the wall beside him and shatter, staining the wallpaper with what he thought was grape juice and sending razor like shards of crystal flying. Some of the tiny pieces hit him, tearing into his cheeks and arms and he started to cry as blood oozed from his stinging skin. His father had been infuriated that she had thrown the glass, but did not notice his bleeding son. Chase slid from his chair and got under the table just in time to see a plate land in fragments on the floor. By then, the blood from his arms was dripping onto the floor and the blood from his cheeks was staining his tidy white shirt. He was scared and crying, but his parents were too angry to notice him. They yelled until his mother stormed away from the dining room.

Only after she left did his father notice that his son was hiding under the table crying. Chase remembered the very odd sight of his father's face peeking under the tablecloth to find him. "Robert, why are you crying?" he asked. "Are you scared?" Chase held out his arms for his father to see. "Oh, dear. Come here then. Let me see."

Chase crawled out from under the table, more fragments of glass and china pressing into his knees. Rowan helped the child get to his feet and shook his head. "I think we can take care of this at home. Come along, let me get you cleaned up. It's a good thing your father is a doctor." He picked up his son and hugged him. "I'm sorry you got hurt, Robert. Sometimes adults get angry and do bad things." Rowan had not tried to excuse what happened. Robert had accepted that adults did bad things when they got angry. His mother's behavior continued to reinforce that idea.

Chase thought about House's question. He was afraid of the answer, so he avoided it. "I don't want to talk about her. Drop it."

"Admit that you're angry," House ordered.

"No," Chase said defiantly. Now House had issued a challenge, attempting to press the right buttons to make him crack. "I don't have any reason to be angry. It's not Foreman's fault."

House took a step closer to Chase and Chase backed further away from him in response. "You're going to face this and now is as good of a time as any," he warned.

"No," Chase resisted. "I don't want to." He took another step toward his bedroom, but House reached out to stop him once more.

"I bet you said that to those guys in the clinic," House prodded.

Chase clenched his jaw as he looked into the insightful eyes confronting him.

"It's probably best that you just keep it all to yourself though. That way it only hurts you. You wouldn't want to hurt Foreman's feelings. He's been through _so much:_ restraining you while you were sodomized; ignoring it while you were strangled and raped on the floor two feet from where he was standing with his back turned." House spat the words with the contempt he felt for the acts committed against his junior. He noticed Chase cringe and look away. "And there's all that hard work he's put into trying to convince us to have you committed to the psych ward."

The words coming from House's mouth were crushing to Chase. He blinked back shameful tears as he stared at the other man's dingy blue and white sneakers.

"Cameron's been a great friend to you. Babysitting, buying you food. She tried to cure you with sex three weeks after you were viciously assaulted. But, she had your best interest at heart. Really. You owe her so much."

Chase recognized the resentment he had pushed aside for the sake of not upsetting Cameron as it surfaced once again.

"Cuddy's been so generous, allowing you six whole weeks to recover from such a brutal attack. I bet she'll even offer you a nice, fat settlement if you agree not to sully the hospital's reputation with a lawsuit," he continued. "You wouldn't want to speak up about security. They only failed to keep armed and dangerous deviants off the property. And we all know the police are doing the best they can to find the psycho creeps."

Chase's jaw remained set as he listened to the litany of events and circumstances. He clenched his teeth together.

"But you should probably keep it to yourself. You wouldn't want to upset any of the people who have been so kind to you."

Chase was startled when his teeth began to chatter. He shook his head to make it stop.

"Let it out," House encouraged calmly.

"I… can't," Chase resisted, afraid that if he let it go it would consume him. He felt his left arm trembling and grabbed his left wrist with his right hand to still it. His chest was burning as he considered the things House had said. His mind darted rapidly through flashes of feelings and images. _Security… Foreman…the clinic… Cuddy… lawyers… Cameron… Mum… Foreman… Cuddy… Joe._

He released his wrist because his right had started shaking just as badly as his left. He heard his teeth chattering like an old typewriter. His emotions billowed within his gut like smoke from a roaring inferno. "I… don't… want… this!" He struggled against every word that escaped from his lips, trying desperately to hold them all inside. His whole body was quaking. He exhaled short, unsteady breaths. His eyes were stinging.

House watched him cautiously.

The anguished words started to flow from him like lava bursting free from years of dormancy under the earth. "I didn't want him to touch me. I didn't want to have to protect Foreman or anyone else. I had to. I didn't have a choice because I'm not a bad person and I couldn't let them kill anyone. I would have run like hell if I had the choice. It was just a game to them." He caught his breath, but kept going. "And why were they able to get a gun into the hospital anyway? Why didn't they do something about security when you got shot? Why did Foreman turn his back on me? Why do I have to give him absolution when he _helped them_? Why did this have to happen for Cameron to treat me like a person?" Hot, angry tears streamed from his eyes. "I want to come home. I don't want to go to therapy. I'm _not_ incompetent!" he declared. "I want Cuddy and her damn lawyers and advocates and counselors to leave me alone. None of them have a clue what this is like, so how can they tell me how to react? I want this all to go away. Every time I close my eyes, he's there and I want him out of my head. I don't want… I don't deserve this!" It was more difficult for him to catch his breath and his voice had nearly disappeared from the strain.

"No, you don't," House said, calmly. He was certain that Chase had never before revealed so many of his thoughts at once to anyone. He had probably never had anyone interested in listening and it surprised House that _he_ actually was interested in what was tormenting Chase, and not just because it was a piece of the puzzle.

Chase walked away from House and sat back down on his sofa. His heart was beating furiously. He felt sweat on his forehead and this throat was burning. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his respiration. He noticed the couch dip slightly when House sat down beside him. He was close, but not close enough that they would make contact should one of them shift in his seat. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

Chase realized that he felt a little less burdened than he had before House had dragged this out of him. There was just one thing left that he had to make House understand. "My mum," he started softly. "She was sick."

"I know," House responded. He looked straight ahead while Chase continued.

"She wasn't a bad person."

"Yeah," House acquiesced.

"She never meant to hurt me," he defended her. "She was always sorry."

House nodded, "Just not sorry enough to stop."

Chase waited a full minute before responding. "Yeah," he whispered. "I love her anyway."

"I know," House answered. "You're a better person than the dismal cast of characters you've been stuck with in your lifetime."

"They're not _all_ bad," Chase argued with what was left of his voice. He gave a small, wistful smile to his boss.

"Be quiet," House told him. "You talk too much."

**AN: This was, without a doubt, the most difficult chapter for me to write of any of my stories (original or fanfic) ever. Seriously. Great big thanks to Aenisses Thai and fluffykitty2001 for taking time to beta. **


	34. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: House, MD. is the property of Universal Studios. No profit is to be made from this story.

_February 2_

Chase briskly walked through the hospital toward Dr. Johnson's office. His next appointment had been scheduled for the next Monday, but he had called to see if it could be changed. Fortunately, the receptionist had been eager to find a time to work him into the schedule.

After the confrontation with House the night before, House had eventually announced that he was hungry and pizza was going to waste, so they decided to check to see if Cuddy and Cameron were anywhere to be found. House had asked them why they were sitting in the hallway, then invited them inside to finish the soggy pizza, pasta, and cinnamon sticks.

While Cuddy had been unusually quiet, Cameron had had questions; but House tersely answered her first one with, "Everything's fine."

Chase had only made eye contact with her for a few seconds when offering to pay for the meal she had ordered. He was certain she would bombard him with sympathy the next time they were alone, or even if they were not alone. Since every_one_ knew every_thing_ about him now, of what value was privacy?

Chase had suggested that he would be fine staying the night in his own place, but three sets of eyes met him with such glares that his campaign to move back home was short-lived. It was frustrating for him even though he appreciated their concern. There was also a distinct part of him that was relieved that House nixed the idea of his leaving their current _safe _arrangement. Now that he had his Explorer back, he was eager to be cleared to drive again, but he doubted that would come until he finished the post-exposure medication. It would not be much longer.

Strangely, it did not bother Chase that House knew about his mother. But what House had said came back to him in the early hours of morning and he shot awake in a panic. He had to see Dr. Johnson. Immediately.

As he made his way to the psychiatrist's office, Chase noticed that some people veered in opposite directions when they saw him, but some of the nurses greeted him with friendly words as he passed. He nodded and responded, "Good morning," but did not slow down when he spoke to anyone. He found that he did not even care what anyone thought of his being at the therapist's office two days in a row. He amused himself by imagining threatening to send Foreman after anyone who even looked at him funny.

He arrived at Dr. Johnson's office and was ushered into the room. Johnson greeted him with an outstretched hand, "Robert," he started. "How are you?"

"Thanks for working me in," Chase shook his hand quickly and then headed to the couch to sit. He was sure that if he did not speak to Johnson today, he would lose his nerve over the weekend.

"I'm glad to. I'm pleased that you felt comfortable with calling in to ask for the appointment," Johnson started as he sat in his chair and opened his notebook. "Most of my patients don't believe me when I tell them to call if they need anything," he quipped. "You seem agitated this morning," he observed.

Chase took a deep breath and blurted, "It was my mother who hit me."

A worried expression crossed Johnson's features. "Is this a _new_ memory?" he asked.

"No," Chase shook his head. Of course Johnson would assume he was digging up repressed memories. He had been seeing the man for nearly four years and conveniently left out that part of his history. "No, I just didn't tell you before."

Johnson made some notes.

"I didn't want anyone to know," Chase explained. He thought it was evident, but saying it out loud might smooth over the fact that he had lied to his therapist for years. Johnson had asked him if there was any physical abuse involved when he first admitted that his mother was an alcoholic, claiming that alcoholics were three times more likely to abuse their children than non-alcoholics. Chase had said that she mostly left him alone to avoid further discussion. "I wanted to protect her," he admitted. Maybe it was foolish to want to keep the truth from a man who had never known her and never would. But it always came back to the same thing: he loved her.

"Why do you want me to know now?"

"Because of what House said," he answered. "I told him. Or I didn't _tell_ him. He guessed. And he was right," Chase babbled. He began to sound more like he was talking to himself than to someone else, "Of course he was right. He's House. He's always right. He sees right through you. Eventually."

"Tell me what House said," Johnson requested.

Chase clasped his hands together loosely near his knees. He bounced them slightly. "He said I rationalize it, like I actually believe it was okay." He shifted and started rubbing his left shoulder, then ran his left had through his hair. "He's right. I do."

"You rationalize the abuse?"

Chase nodded. The word _abuse_ sounded odd to him. He never thought of himself as _abused_. He clasp his hands together behind his head and, looking through the shield of his elbows, announced, "It's not okay." He stood up and walked to the window. "Even if she did love me, it's not okay." He toyed with the blinds for a moment, letting light in, then shutting it out.

"No, it's not," Johnson agreed.

He turned around. "But I realized that that's a problem. I can't give her an excuse. Because, if I give her an excuse," he narrowed eyes, thinking deeply, "Then I would give myself an excuse too," he said cautiously.

"Explain what you mean."

Chase took a few steps toward Johnson's desk and leaned against it, not quite allowing himself to sit on it. He picked up a pale pink brain shaped stress ball that advertised Paxil and squeezed it. "If I make myself believe that it was okay for her to hit me when I was a kid because she didn't mean to, then one day I might try to convince myself that it's okay for me to hit my kid because I don't really mean it either," he explained, putting the miniature brain exactly where he had found it, then spinning it like a top. "Not that I have a kid. And I might not ever, but if I did, I don't want to hit him. Ever." He looked up at Johnson. "I think this is how those circles of abuse go. You know, the parent beats up his kid because it's what happened to him when he was little?" He discovered a pen with a triangular barrel that had the Wellbutrin logo on it. "Only you always think that a person would never hit their kids if their parents hit them because they know what it's like and how it makes you scared of every day." He clicked the pen several times as he spoke, then put it back where it belonged. "But maybe they don't know better because they think it's okay. If it wasn't wrong when it happened to them, then it's not wrong when they do it." He paused, then went back to the couch. "That could be me."

Johnson listened and wrote notes quickly without taking his eyes off Chase for more than a few seconds at a time.

Chase's right leg was bouncing as he continued, "If I believe it was my own fault that she hit me, I could make myself believe that it was my kid's fault. Because I would become her." He put his hand to his forehead for a moment. "That's insane." He ran his hand through his hair again, convinced that his convoluted thoughts made sense only to himself. He was giving himself a headache and his throat was hurting again. "House was right. I'm afraid of turning into her." He stopped talking and looked to Johnson, hoping he could tell him how to stop that cycle.

Johnson watched Chase closely while he noted what he said and his behaviors. "Congratulations," he said.

Chase did not expect to hear that. "What?"

"Somehow, in twenty-four hours, you've had a breakthrough regarding a deeply guarded secret that we have never even broached before."

"How do I fix it?" Chase asked, far less concerned about his progress than the outcome.

"Through _understanding_, which is what you're achieving right now. You could have told me three years ago that your mother was physically abusive, but there's nothing that comes from telling me about instances when she hit you that would have been any more beneficial for you than recognizing your own misperceptions."

Chase thought that Johnson looked genuinely pleased.

"You said you rationalized it, thus you gave her an excuse. Can you explain that a little bit more to me?"

Chase was taken aback. He had expected Johnson to want to start hypnotherapy or give him another notebook, not to congratulate him on a breakthrough. "I… believed that she only hit me because she was drinking and that if she had been sober, she wouldn't do it." That was not the full truth and he knew it. His voice was soft, "I thought if I was a better son, she would love me enough to stop hurting me. If I could be good enough, she wouldn't drink. I wanted to make it better for her after my dad left, but I wasn't good enough to make her happy. So I blamed it on myself and the liquor, but never her."

"Did she ever hit you while she was sober?"

Chase thought about the question. It was more difficult to answer than one might expect. Somehow, when he looked back on that part of his life, it was mostly blank. "I don't know," he answered. "I think I've told myself over and over that she only hit me when she was drunk, but I don't remember enough to know for sure one way or the other," he frowned. It was frustrating to search for memories that simply were not there. "I remember her being drunk." And he remembered that no one was there to help him with her when she was drunk. A split second flash entered his mind--himself sitting in his desk in chemistry class with his elbow propped on the desktop and his head against hand, trying to hide the fading bruise on his cheek as he read the text. He wished someone would notice. Nobody did.

Johnson nodded. "You've mentioned twice that House was right. I'm assuming the two of you had a conversation about your mother last night."

Chase nodded. He knew this was his cue to expand upon the details.

Johnson waited. "Robert?"

Chase looked up without a word.

"Could you tell me about that?"

Chase shrugged, "He told me about Foreman hitting that guy." He expected Johnson to ask him how he felt about that incident.

He did not. "What led to the subject of your mother?"

Chase likened Johnson to a verbal figure skater. He could go around, over, or through a subject in ways that seemed completely random, or spin around and around in the same spot until the ice beneath him cracked. Chase felt like he was cracking. "House thought I was acting weird." No, that didn't sound right. That might convince Johnson he was unstable. "He thought I should have been angry, when I wasn't." And that was admitting defeat since he had just discussed allowing himself to become angry before he left Johnson's office the day before. Chase figured he was failing this test of competence miserably. Johnson would never let Cuddy put him back to work. "It's really not Foreman's fault…" he started, but his enthusiasm for the defense faltered and he simply let the sentence fade. He sighed. "I am kind of pissed," he admitted.

"Why?"

Chase exhaled heavily. "I really don't want to talk about Foreman."

Johnson nodded.

Chase was certain that Johnson was noting that he was being noncompliant. "In fact, I'm kind of sick of talking about that whole incident. It happened. Apparently, everybody knows it happened, so I think it's time we all just moved on."

"I would like to discuss how your mother was brought into the conversation with House," Johnson reminded him.

"I asked House if he thought I was supposed to go beat up Foreman and he guessed that my mother beat me."

"Just from asking if you should beat up Foreman?"

"That was the last clue he needed," Chase explained.

"What were the others?" Johnson asked.

"You'd have to ask House," Chase answered, wondering if Johnson was asking to find the clues that he had not seen for himself. He was the psychiatrist, after all.

"Let's focus on House," Johnson suggested. "How would you classify your relationship?"

"Shouldn't we be talking about my mother?" Chase asked.

"We are."

"House is not my mother," Chase pointed out sarcastically.

"You trust him enough to confide in him about a lot of things."

"That doesn't make him my mother," Chase argued, stubbornly.

"I'm not implying that," Johnson replied.

Johnson's tone was the closest to annoyance that Chase had ever heard him use. "I don't confide in him," Chase disputed. "He figures everybody out whether you want him to or not." He thought of the night before. Then, he thought of the night before that. And there was the evening he had that horrible nightmare. And House had been there when he spoke to the police. That was not confiding in House, was it? Somebody had to speak for him and House had volunteered. But he knew he would not have written half of what he had for the police had it been any other doctor or any random interpreter. "Maybe I do," he admitted after a few moments of thought.

"Do you see any similarities between House and your mother?"

Chase looked at the psychiatrist with disbelief. "You think I'm turning House into some kind of mother figure? How fucked up do you think I am?"

Johnson's expression remained neutral. The man had to be unbeatable when playing poker.

"There aren't any similarities," he huffed.

"None?"

"No." Chase crossed his arms, waiting for a reply.

Johnson waited.

"I'm not falling for that," Chase warned him.

"What?"

"You sitting there saying nothing while you wait for me to think of whatever it is you want me to see. If there's some connection, just spell it out."

"I don't think you need me to point it out. "

Chase was getting angry. "What are you implying?" he asked. "You think they're both addicts so I must be addicted to addicts? Well, it's not the same. My mother chose alcohol over her family and life and everything else. House takes pills because he's in pain. He needs his Vicodin. And he's functional. And he doesn't go around hitting people."

Johnson did not have to speak for his expression to convey the fallacy of that statement.

"Once!" Chase asserted. "That was a completely unique situation. He said he was sorry," he lied.

Johnson looked doubtful.

"Look, I didn't have a choice when it came to my mother. I stay with House because he's the best doctor I've ever known and I'm learning from him. I trust him. He didn't mean to hit me and it won't happen again. This is stupid. I told you my mother used to hit me and you want to talk about House, which is completely irrelevant. Just tell me how to not hit my kids if I ever have any."

"So you're saying there are two different situations wherein a person in authority, someone you love and respect, have hit you. One hit you as part of a pattern. One hit you in an isolated incident."

"Yes, that's what I'm saying." Chase answered. He ground his teeth together in frustration.

"In your best estimation, what is the correlating factor?"

Chase shook his head, irritated by this entire exchange. House had been good to him. It was just wrong to compare one incident when he was out of his mind in pain to years of abuse from his mother. "He wasn't thinking clearly," Chase said, still defending House.

"And your mother?"

"Was drunk."

"Which means?"

"She was… what do you want me to say? She was intoxicated, inebriated, stonkered--" The answer hit Chase like a brick, "Not thinking clearly."

Johnson made notes silently.

"I have to stay in control of my thoughts," he realized. "If I have a kid, I have to focus on them and not what's going on with me." Chase considered that for a minute. It was overwhelming. "_How_ do you even do that?" He had been so caught up in himself for the past few weeks, that there was no room for anything else.

"For most people, their mindset changes when they have kids."

"Most?"

"Robert, I can't promise you that you'll walk out of here ready to be a father. You know that. What's important is that you're clarifying what is healthy behavior and what is not."

Chase shook his head, "I don't think I should have kids." If keeping control over his thoughts was an issue, he was not sure he would ever be ready.

"Maybe not today. However, by recognizing your own potential for becoming abusive, you're far ahead of most men who were battered as children. Robert, you're not a violent person. I believe that because you did not react in kind when you've been hit on the job. You've been through the kind of trauma that would drive many people to substance abuse and not gone that route. I think you underestimate your strength and overestimate your flaws."

"No, you don't understand. I… my thoughts. I think about it all the time," he admitted sheepishly. "I don't have control over my thoughts and I might never again. I can't make it go away."

Johnson nodded. He set his pen on his paper and looked up.

Somehow, setting the pen down made Chase feel as though he had Johnson's full attention.

"Can you trust me enough to tell me exactly what you think about?" Johnson asked.

Chase looked down. His eyes felt watery as he whispered, "Joe." He was quiet for a minute, considering his words. "He's always in my mind. I… he's… everything. I remember him. I think about the black holes and wonder what happened that I don't remember. I dream about him every time I fall asleep. I remember things when if I'm cooking, or watching TV, or even… with… Cameron." He kept his eyes averted. "I still feel him," he whispered, ashamed of what he was admitting. He could be surrounded by other people and still sense things that he had experienced in the clinic.

"They're called somatic memories," Johnson explained.

Chase was shocked to discover that Johnson had moved from his chair to sit next to him on the couch.

"Your mind and body can not be separated. Your memories are not just in your brain. They're in the tissues of your skin, your muscles, your organs."

"It's like reliving a little bit of what happened over and over again," Chase told his therapist in a soft voice. "I'm crazy," he felt tears slide down his cheeks and reached up to wipe them away. He did not know how or if he would ever get back to normal.

"You're no crazier for having physical memories of assault than you are for being able to recall the way sand feels when you're barefoot on the beach."

"I don't feel sand between my toes when I'm trying to have a conversation or falling asleep," Chase argued weakly. There were times that he sensed fleeting phantom hands roaming over his flesh or gripping his throat and his stomach churned with anxiety although there was nothing corporal attacking him.

"Somatic memories are very common in cases of severe physical trauma," Johnson explained. "Your body has to process the trauma, just as your brain does. Sometimes a person will have a physical reaction to an intangible stimulus. Your body responds to trauma in physiologic ways and those responses may be repeated when you revisit the trauma."

"This is embarrassing," Chase cringed.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Johnson assured him. "This is not as abnormal as you think it is. Did you know that studies have show that victims of abuse or rape sometimes develop allergies, autoimmune disorders, heart disease, even Type II diabetes related to the enduring physical stress? Long term chemical changes, such as those caused by stress hormones, can lead to degenerative processes. Your body will not be ignored."

Chase nodded as if he understood all that Johnson was telling him, but the information was overwhelming, even for a student of the human body.

"We can work on helping you stop the somatic memories. Is there any particular physical memory that is strongest or most likely to resurface?"

Chase nodded, knowing that Johnson would expect him to elaborate. "My mouth," he whispered. He often felt tingling sensations or a smothering force that he wanted to push away. He supposed it was what haunted him most because it was the most vivid of his memories. There was no loss of consciousness or oxygen deprivation clouding that experience. No, he had been perfectly lucid for that.

"How often do these memories bother you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think they ever go away for long."

"Okay, there are a few things we can try. First, we can consider changing your medication from Effexor to Lexapro. It's indicated for obsessive compulsive disorder which the Effexor is not."

"I don't have OCD," Chase argued.

"Even without behavioral compulsions, you are having obsessive thoughts," Johnson explained.

Chase sighed with disappointment, "We were going to start working my way off the anti-depressants."

"We may still be able to do that eventually," Johnson consoled him. "But now is not the time."

Chase nodded, accepting that life got in the way of plans.

"Are you open to the idea of holistic therapies?"

Chase shrugged, "Like what?"

"Aromatherapy, for starters."

"Aromatherapy?" Chase repeated, doubt evident in his tone.

"Smells go directly to the limbic system," Johnson told him. "I'm sure you've noticed how certain aromas can trigger memories."

Chase nodded in agreement, thinking of how any strong perfume reminded him of his mother and how her favorite perfume could put him right back in the middle of their kitchen as he tried to wrestle a bottle out of her hands.

"I'll be right back," Johnson promised. He went to his desk and rummaged through three different drawers before pulling out a very small glass bottle. He returned to the couch and offered it to Chase.

Chase took it from the outstretched hand hesitantly. He read that it was spearmint oil.

"Smell it," Johnson encouraged.

Chase undid the cap and held the bottle to his nose. The scent seemed to go right into the core of his brain. It was strong, but not necessarily offensive. For a split second, the smell overpowered everything else on his mind.

"What do you see?" Johnson asked.

"Huh?" he shook his head and put the cap back in place.

"What did you see when you smelled the oil?"

"Uh," Chase was afraid that this session was going down a strange path. "Um, a leaf?" he answered, unsure of the response. Perhaps he did see the image of a bright green leaf, a logo he remembered from a pack of spearmint flavored gum.

"Great," Johnson responded.

Chase thought the man seemed genuinely excited by this.

"Do you find that to be a pleasant smell?"

"It's okay," Chase answered.

"I want you to keep that. When you are bothered by the somatic memories, inhale and picture that leaf."

Chase's expression easily conveyed his uncertainty in the treatment.

"Try it for at least two weeks. If you want, you can massage some of the oil into your temples."

Chase was certainly dubious of that suggestion. "I don't really like to wear fragrances," he said. "It's bad policy for patient care anyway." He had been taught that medical professionals were not to wear colognes because they could make sick people feel even worse. He was surprised by how many American doctors and nurses did not follow that guideline.

"That's no problem. You can easily carry that bottle in the pocket of your pants or lab coat when you come back to work."

"So you want me to sniff this and think of a leaf?" Chase asked. He felt a spark of hope that Johnson had said _when_ he came back to work instead of _if_ he came back to work.

"Yes."

"And what will that do to help?"

"It interrupts the flow of the somatic memory," Johnson answered. Eventually, if you feel a memory, you can simply picture the leaf in your mind to stop it, even without smelling the oil."

Chase was not sure if this idea was really cool or really absurd. The smell had momentarily overtaken his senses, so he supposed it had potential to interrupt a memory. He never would have imagined himself carrying around a tiny bottle of spearmint oil, but he was willing to try anything to keep from reliving those memories. "Okay," he agreed.

"If the aromatherapy doesn't work, we'll look into other options," Johnson promised. "Massage therapy would probably be very beneficial."

Chase shifted uncomfortably, thinking of how Cameron's touch had only served to remind him of Joe's. It sickened him to think of some stranger running their hands over his body.

"It may take longer for you to be ready for that," Johnson acknowledged. "My next question is this--has there been a time since you were raped that you were able to focus for a significant period of time without being distracted by the attack?"

"Yeah," Chase answered. "Cameron and I had lunch together and a man next to us went into cardiac arrest. I didn't think about Joe while we were working on him, not until we left."

"That's promising," Johnson said. "I think you should consider coming back to work. I believe part of your problem is being home alone with nothing to do but think."

"Watching _Days of Our Lives _certainly isn't helping," Chase agreed. "You think I could come back?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't see any reason why you could not be involved in differentials on patients. Just differentials, though. I don't have any qualms with you using your mind. However, I do not think you're quite ready physically to work with patients yet. Your responsibilities are too high to risk a dissociative episode during a procedure. You do recognize that the somatic memories are linked to the process of dissociation? They can become overwhelming."

Chase nodded. He had certainly been overwhelmed when Foreman came to visit him.

"Possibly, you could start with half-days if you think you're ready to face this place every day."

"I have to start sometime," Chase answered. "It's not quite as bad today as it was yesterday."

"Despite the incident with Dr. Foreman?"

Chase nodded. "The truth isn't nearly as scandalous as speculation, right?"

"That's a very healthy attitude, Robert."

Chase smiled, pleased that Johnson approved.

"You should check with your primary physician to see when you can be medically released to work again."

"Can you let House know you think I'm competent enough to be included in differentials? He's my primary."

"I'll talk with him this afternoon. I'll also speak with Dr. Cuddy. If they do not agree that you're physically ready due to your medication or injuries, then you might consider some other means to shift your focus. A vacation, perhaps."

"What about keeping appointments?" Chase asked, reminded that Cuddy was adamant about his therapy sessions.

"You've had two back to back. It looks to me like it should be at least five to seven days until I see you again. Unless, of course, you need to come back. Start small, but I want you to try to get back to your normal routines."

"You mean, I should start living again?" Chase asked.

"That's exactly what I mean."

AN: Thanks so much for all the responses to the last chapter! I was blissfully overwhelmed! **labrat** and **saarazaara**, thanks for the recs at House's House of Whining.


	35. Chapter 35

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?" Chase asked, surprised by the answer. He had just asked House if he could start back to work on Monday. "With Foreman out, you need me." He was not pleased that his bid to bribe House with a very unhealthy meal was not working. He had kept his principles, refusing to fry anything, but had broiled some hamburgers and roasted some thinly sliced red skinned potatoes hoping they would be crispy enough to be a suitable substitution for French fries.

"We don't even have a case," House replied, splitting a bun and setting one of the burgers on the bottom half. He grabbed the bottle of mayonnaise that Wilson had just used.

"You'll get one," Chase argued. "It's inevitable."

"Not necessarily," House shrugged. "And it doesn't matter if we do, you signed up for a six week medical leave, so you're going to take a six week medical leave."

"I don't need the whole six weeks. I'm better."

"You _signed_ for a six week--"

"I can't be held to anything I signed," Chase told him, vaguely remembering the advocate Helen Harper. "I think." His eyes darted upward as he tried to remember that conversation. Yes, there was something about mind-altering drugs and having no one with power of attorney.

"You're not ready to come back." House saw the look of protest that met his statement. "Physically."

"Dr. Johnson said I could be part of the diagnostic process. My mind is fine."

"The _psychiatrist_ you're seeing for post traumatic stress disorder and depression said your _mind_ is _fine_?" House asked, skeptically. "Interesting. That's like Wilson telling someone with leukemia that their blood is just dandy, don't you think?"

Chase frowned. Leave it to House to point out the inconsistency of that set of circumstances. "I can still think like a doctor," he clarified. "He thinks it would be good for me to do something productive."

"Your voice still goes out when you overuse it."

"That could continue for months--not a good enough reason," Chase declared. He realized his voice was weak and it gave out when strained, but that was an inevitable effect of the damage. "You've asked for my input at home. Why not at the hospital?"

"You still sleep sixteen hours a day."

"Because I'm bored." A tiny nagging voice in his mind reminded him that he could do something other than sleep like reading journals or some of his leisure books, working on his article, or playing his guitar. An even tinier voice added that the only thing keeping him from getting out of the apartment and doing things independently like he used to do was his own fear. He ignored that voice.

"And depressed," House added, knowing that Chase's sleeping habits were due to much more than boredom.

"And on ARV's," Chase reminded him, intent on finding a way around his embarrassing depression.

"Which make you groggy." House took an apple from the basket in the center of the table and tossed it toward Chase.

Chase did not realize what House had done until the apple sailed past his ear and hit the floor.

"And numb your reflexes," House added to the assessment of the effects of the post-exposure medicine. "You'd be dangerous if you were working on a patient."

Chase scowled. "I don't need reflexes to think. Johnson said he would only release me for diagnostic work, nothing to do with direct patient care yet."

"Right. Because if you're in the room when a patient codes, you'll stand back and wait for another doctor to take charge."

"I don't have to actually see any patients," Chase offered. "You don't have to eyeball all your patients."

House ignored the silly argument. He got around to seeing all his patients… eventually. "Besides you said '_And_ ARVs,' meaning you acknowledge that you're depressed."

Chase threw his hands upward. "I could deny it. It wouldn't make it untrue. But, I've been taking Effexor since my father died. A little bout of depression doesn't mean I can't work for you. I bet half the doctors in the hospital are on some kind of SSRI."

"If it was a little bout, you'd be coming off the Effexor, not switching to Lexapro." House had immediately recognized that the medication switch noted in Chase's record was likely due to either obsessive thoughts or compulsions. Despite his protests to Foreman and Cameron that it was not an issue, he was wary that if Chase admitted to suicidal ideology, it would have prompted Johnson to make the medication switch. However, House was only aware of the switch and would not be able to determine the rationale for the change unless he broke into Johnson's office and confiscated his notes on Chase.

"Does he have to know everything?" Chase asked with a sidelong glance at Wilson.

Wilson stopped eating and said, "I could leave," around the bite of hamburger in his mouth.

"If you insist on bringing these things up at the dinner table, then yes," House answered.

"I don't want you to leave," Chase told Wilson, apologetically.

"You weren't expecting me anyway," Wilson said, feeling guilty. They had already had this discussion once. Chase had broiled only two fresh hamburger patties that he had seasoned and shaped himself. Wilson assumed one was supposed to have been Chase's meal, but Chase argued that he had no intention of eating any meat for a while. Wilson reminded him that he had put chicken on his plate before. Chase reminded Wilson that he did not actually eat the chicken and insisted that he had made the hamburger specifically for him, because he knew Wilson was coming over to watch the DVDs he had dropped off the night before.

"I stuck my hand in dead cow for you," Chase told him. He made a face that emphasized his opinion of the meat. It was actually more disturbing to think of eating a hamburger after he had handled the raw ground sirloin.

House crinkled his nose, peering at his own hamburger that he head just slathered with mustard. The patty was thick, grayish-brown, and he could see black pepper flakes in it. It barely reached the edges of his bun. He shrugged, deciding it was not _that_ disgusting. He added a slice of cheese and topped it with some onions. "So, you're just going to eat potatoes?" House asked, nodding toward Chase's plate.

"Yes."

"That's _healthy_," Wilson commented sarcastically.

"_That's_ healthy?" Chase countered, nodding toward the hamburger. He had seen the copious amounts of grease left in the bottom of the broiler pan.

"It's _delicious_," Wilson answered, overemphasizing how much he was enjoying the burger.

"But I'm bored," Chase whined, turning back to House. "Please let me come back to work."

"So you can nap in the conference room?"

"So I can help in differentials."

"No patient. No differentials."

"When you get a patient--then can I come back to work?"

"Of course," House answered.

Chase smiled, feeling victorious.

"If our next patient comes in two weeks," House added stubbornly. He took a big bite of his hamburger, savoring the flavor. One thing was certain: he had not eaten this well in a very long time. Having Chase around to cook and clean had been to his advantage. "If you're really bored, make more of these. I'll sell them outside the cafeteria at exorbitant prices and we can split the profit. Eighty-twenty sound fair to you?"

"You need me," Chase reverted to his original argument.

"Fine," House snapped in his clearly irritated tone. "Do twelve hours in the clinic and you can come back."

Chase felt as if someone had doused him with ice water. A chill ran over his skin, creeping from his head to his shoulders, on down to his toes. It went right through to his bones.

Wilson froze, his hamburger halfway between his plate and his mouth. He looked from House to Chase, shocked that House had mentioned the clinic.

House waited, eyes keenly peering at his underling.

Chase swallowed, and made eye contact with House. "I'm not going back to the clinic," he announced. His voice was eerily calm. "Ever." He said it with such certainty that one would be inclined to believe him.

There was no reason to specify that Johnson had not cleared him for the direct contact required to work with clinic patients. It was irrelevant to the House's aim of reminding Chase that he was not prepared to return to the duties required by his job.

"Until you can work in the clinic, you can't work for me." House's voice was just as calm, just as sure.

Chase sighed and admitted defeat, angry that House had brought up the clinic and humiliated that he knew exactly where to hit to get the reaction he wanted. He was angry with himself as well. He doubted House ever would have made that stipulation if he had not pressed so hard to go back to work immediately. He also knew House was just stubborn enough to stick to it. He started to get up from the table.

"Refusing to eat like a four year old is not going to convince me that you're capable of working," House told him sternly. "And I'm sick of you eating like some pansy assed vegetarian."

Chase dropped the plate he had started to lift, letting it fall an inch or so to the table. It clattered against the tabletop and some of his potatoes nearly slid off the dish. He sat again and ate his potatoes quickly. Every bite seemed to grow instead of getting smaller as he chewed. Swallowing was unpleasant at best. No one said another word. He finished eating as quickly as he could, then cleared his place at the table. He retrieved the bruised apple before Kacey had a chance to transform it into his latest plaything. He wiped it on the front of his shirt and placed it back in the fruit bowl. Then, he went to the recliner while House and Wilson finished their meal. He felt trapped. He wanted to be in his own home where he could close the door to his own bedroom and be alone.

He looked around the living room that had been his home of late. He was torn between wanting to stay in this haven of safety and wanting to move back to his own apartment. He thought about being here with House. Did he feel safe because House was present about half of the time? Or was it simply because he was not in his own home? He considered his apartment, questioning if he would even be able to stay there by himself knowing that Joe and Dave had tried to break in so soon after they had attacked him. Would he _ever _feel safe there again? They knew where he lived--that meant they could watch him as he came and went. On the other hand, they had failed at breaking into that apartment so they knew the security was good. Though, what good was security if they grabbed him in the parking lot?

His thoughts were interrupted as House and Wilson joined him in the living room. He ignored their conversation. Wilson had indeed bought all three seasons of _Kung Fu_ so the series was theirs to watch at their convenience. Chase imagined that Wilson had shown up at House's place the night before and gotten very irritated when no one came home or bothered to tell them where they were. He now watched the oncologist put the first DVD of the series into the player and toss the remote control to House.

Chase felt a tiny bit better when Kacey jumped into his lap, bringing the toy sock with him. Everyone was curling up in their own comfortable spot to watch the show. Wilson made a trip into the kitchen to gather a six pack of beer, a bag of corn chips, a bag plain potato chips, and a carton of sour cream and onion dip.

"Don't forget the cookies," House ordered from the sofa.

Chase was almost insulted that they were gorging themselves on junk food so soon after the meal he had prepared.

Wilson grumbled just a little bit, something about not having five hands, and brought a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies out of the pantry. He managed to balance the cookies on top of the beer and the dip on top of the cookies while holding both bags of chips in one hand. He sighed, set down the assortment of treats, then retrieved a single can of Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator. Somehow he managed to carry it in the crook of his elbow as he brought the snacks to the coffee table. He dropped the bags of chips first, then set down the beer and cookies. The carton of dip tumbled to the side, but he caught it before it could spill. He saved the soda from falling out of his arm and handed it to Chase.

Chase was startled by the gesture and it woke him up to the way he had been completely useless when he could have been helping Wilson instead of watching him. "Oh, crap, I'm sorry, Wilson. I should have helped." Chase was not one to drink a soda very often, but he appreciated the drink. More than that, he appreciated Wilson for thinking of the fact that he could not drink beer with his medications.

Wilson shook his head, looking from Chase to House, back to Chase. "Don't worry about it." For the time being, looking out for House meant looking out for Chase. It was not something Wilson had ever expected, but he found Chase's presence oddly comfortable, even if the Great Wall had just erected itself between the two other men. Wilson doubted the strain would last too much longer. One or the other would say something stupid and clear the air.

While Chase and House had some obvious similarities, they also had some glaring differences. Chase was much more concerned than House with treating others well and pulling his fair share of the workload. House would be content to have anyone cater to his whims while Chase had far more difficulty accepting acts of kindness. Wilson thought he came across like he did not think he was worthy of kindness.

It was obvious that Chase was preoccupied. Wilson had noticed a pattern with the young man--when he sat in the recliner quietly stroking the cat, his mind was usually on something else. This was not the first time they had spent an evening watching a DVD. Sometimes Chase was so far away that he had been able to sit quietly while the other two were holding their sides from laughing. There was a great deal of pain being quietly assimilated. Wilson was certain that House had inflicted a new and complicated layer by demanding Chase return to work in the clinic. He knew things were going to turn sour when Chase would not give up on his request, but he had not expected House to throw clinic duty in Chase's face. In fact, Wilson would not have been surprised if Cuddy had already promised Chase that he really would not have to return to the clinic. Cuddy was powerful, but House was stubborn. If he wanted to force the issue, he would, despite Cuddy's position on the matter.

"Sit your fat ass down, Wilson. You're blocking the TV," House ordered. He was obviously still in a bad mood.

Wilson rolled his eyes then took his seat.

House offered an open bag of corn chips and said, "Chip?" as he held onto the bag. With his other hand, he started the DVD.

"Can we skip the prev--" Wilson started.

"No," House answered adamantly.

Chase shook his head slightly, amused by the predictable interchange between the old friends. He watched them pop open their beer cans simultaneously and sink back into the cushions. He marveled at the way they had no qualms about double-dipping their chips (noting to himself to never share dips with either of them). He was really starting to feel like a third wheel.

"So, they never showed this in jolly old England?" House asked as the opening scene began.

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. That was Housespeak for "Stop worrying about the clinic."

"Not that I know of," Chase answered. He still sounded sullen, but he had replied, thus accepting the truce. After half an hour had passed, he felt a twinge of hunger. "Pass the cookies please," he said, reaching over to the couch. Wilson handed him the open bag of Chips Ahoy. Chase took two cookies and handed it back to Wilson. He ate them and washed them down with the soda. He had barely finished the two when he felt the plastic tray that held the cookies being nudged against his arm. Wilson was offering him more cookies. He took two more and repeated the scene. The third time Wilson passed the bag his way, he shook his head, "No thanks." Wilson responded by holding the bag of corn chips out for him to take. Chase shook his head, "Can't," he said, but did not clarify if he meant he was not hungry or if the sharp chips might make his throat hurt.

They watched several episodes before Wilson declared that it was getting late and he needed to go home, even if it was a Friday night. Chase had started to doze. House had had too many beers and too many cookies.

"You okay to drive?" Chase asked, waking up when Wilson started moving about the room. He noticed Wilson was starting to clean up while House remained still on the couch. "I can get that," he offered, indicating the pile of leftover chips, cookies, and empty beer cans. He stood up and started gathering the food while Wilson cleared the beer cans.

"Only had two beers," Wilson answered, letting the cans fall into the bin set aside for items to recycle. "And lots of junk food. I'll be fine," he assured Chase.

House joined them in the kitchen, opting to take his Vicodin with water. He turned to Chase and looked him up and down. "I will teach you much, Grasshopper," he said in a funny accent. "I am the Master!" he declared. "One day, you too will be a great diagnostician."

If _stunned_ described Chase, _flabbergasted_ described Wilson. Despite the accent and the playful delivery, the words themselves packed a wallop. Wilson knew how rare it was for House to make a real emotional connection to anyone. Still, he had no fear that Chase would ever interfer with his friendship with House and he was proud that House had managed to connect with someone else.

Chase was overwhelmed with mixed feelings of honor, humility, and elation. House had just named him his protégé in a playful, half-drunken way as only House could do. He wanted to hug House because he did not feel quite as much like nothing more than a tolerated intrusion. He understood that House was telling him that this was not going to paralyze him. Still, this was House and he might get decked if he initiated contact. Chase nodded, soaking in the words like sunshine on a winter's day. "Cool."

_Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore, Universal, etc. This story is not for profit. _


	36. Chapter 36

_February 5_

"Why are you going against my recommendation?"

House found himself being confronted by Dr. Johnson. "He's not ready," he answered, irritated when Johnson took a seat in front of his desk. It had been a long day thanks to the throbbing headache he had in addition to the pain in his leg. He had drank too much over the weekend. It had been bitterly cold outside, so he, Wilson, and Chase had launched a _Kung Fu_ marathon, making it well into the second season by Sunday night. At one point, House had even lost control of his thermostat as Chase, Wilson, and Kacey sat shivering on the couch despite trying to share the coveted electric throw.

Now, his department was a ghost town. Foreman was suspended and Cameron had been doing both their clinic hours and even consulted on a case in the immunology department. Wilson's schedule had been packed, as it usually was on Mondays, so there was little room to harass him. Despite how luxurious it might sound to spend a day of leisure ignoring paperwork, watching television, and surfing the internet, House found himself tediously bored instead. Seeing Alan Johnson walk into his office five minutes before he was going to call it a day and leave did not inspire feelings of good will.

"What I don't understand, Dr. House, is why you agreed with me when I spoke to you Friday, but changed your mind over the weekend." His tone was far less accusatory than his words.

"I didn't agree with you Friday," House reminded him. Johnson had phoned him after Chase's session to recommend that he come back in half days. House had said nothing more than, "Okay."

"You didn't _disagree_ with me."

"Yes, I did," House answered. "I just didn't tell you about it." He relished the frustrated reaction from the psychiatrist.

"You let me believe that you accepted my professional opinion."

"I considered your opinion," House said, "And decided you were wrong. He's not ready."

"I say he is." Johnson's long arms rested on either side of the chair, giving him the appearance of someone who was quite relaxed.

"No, you say he's ready to fill a chair at my conference table, nothing about doing actual work on actual patients."

"He needs to start small."

"You can't take baby steps when people are dying," House answered.

"My understanding of being a diagnostician is that it involves using your mind in differential diagnoses, not only doing procedures." He slowly drummed his fingers against the armrest.

"We do _diagnostic procedures_. As long as Chase is incapable of doing his job in full capacity, he doesn't need to be here," House argued. The most attractive aspect of Chase's training before entering the diagnostic fellowship was that he was highly skilled at keeping critical patients alive. "If you're dumb enough to think that he would stand back and let someone code because you told him he could only take part in discussion, you don't know your client." Intensivists were hands-on doctors by virtue of their specialty.

"You have to look at the whole picture, Dr. House," Johnson said calmly. "We're asking Dr. Chase to return to the place where he was brutally attacked. He needs _baby steps_, as you called them, to desensitize himself and acclimate with the environment. He needs to feel productive despite what his injuries and the medication have done to him."

"He's becoming more tolerant of the medicine. Fewer nightmares, less groggy, better appetite." He realized he may have been embellishing with that last one.

"How often is he having nightmares?" Johnson asked, leaning forward just a bit.

"Hmmm, you should probably ask his psychiatrist--sounds like the kind of thing that they would discuss."

"Nightmares are often reported by loved ones rather than patients themselves. As you are aware, many people don't remember their dreams or even that they were dreaming, especially when those dreams are attributable to certain drugs," Johnson explained with little expression. "Still, you've observed a decreasing trend?"

House scowled. Johnson's lack of inflection was infuriating and his pompously proper use of the English language was irritating. Was the man implying that there was something more to his relationship with Chase? What did he mean by _loved ones_? "He hasn't complained lately."

"He complained before?" Johnson asked.

"Woke up screaming," House exaggerated. He did not want Johnson to think he and Chase were having heart-to-heart chats over their afternoon tea.

"Screaming?" Johnson noted the oddity of that claim. "So, this was recently?"

"Excuse me, crying. He woke up _crying_," House snapped. "He would have been screaming if he could have made actual sounds."

"I thought he was sleeping in your living room."

"He is."

"Then how did you--"

"Because, _at the time_, he was sleeping in the afternoons and awake all night, but I was on my normal schedule." House refrained from ending that statement with his new pet name for Johnson, "Idiot."

Johnson nodded, accepting the answer. "It must be hard to live with someone who is keeping such odd hours."

House narrowed his eyes. Johnson was trying to trap him into saying something, though he had no idea what. "Not really," he shrugged, nonchalantly. "Chase is meticulous about not disturbing me whether I'm awake or asleep." Let Johnson try to find something incriminating about that.

"He's a considerate young man," Johnson said agreeably.

House half nodded.

"I imagine it's been helpful to have him around to cook and clean."

"Gives him something to do," House responded. "He doesn't have to, by the way, he chooses to," he explained in a preemptive strike. He had already been down this road before when Cameron insinuated that he was using Chase as a maid.

"I suppose it's a win-win situation," Johnson said.

House glared at him, bothered that the situation with Chase was giving Johnson an excuse to drag him under his microscope.

"You have someone to share the burdens of household chores and Dr. Chase has a safe environment."

House only blinked, waiting for Johnson to continue his winding train of thought.

"You've certainly gone beyond the call of employer duty," Johnson added.

"Get to your point. It's time to go home."

"Ah, I see you're eager to get home to your," he paused as if he were looking for the right word to define what Chase was to him, "Houseguest."

House had to commend Johnson for managing to say that without so much as a twinkle in his eye. "Actually, I have a hooker coming over tonight. They charge by the hour, but you know that."

Johnson ignored the gibe meant to incite him into self-defense. "It perplexes me, Dr. House. You've extended such hospitality to Dr. Chase, ensuring his safety at your own inconvenience. Yet, you want to throw him back into the environment most potentially hazardous for his emotional well-being. Exactly, _why_ did you demand that Chase return to the clinic before he returns to work for you?"

House exhaled, "Did he come whining to you?" No one had mentioned the clinic over the weekend and Chase had not mentioned coming back to work before his leave of absence was complete. He had hoped that it was a dead subject for now.

"No."

House continued as if he did not hear Johnson's response. "If he thinks that I'm going to change my mind because you tell me to--"

"Dr. Chase has not spoken to me about it," Johnson informed him.

"Wilson?" House asked, though it was obvious. It was not the first time Wilson had reported something he said or did to someone else. Apparently Wilson had concerns about requiring Chase to work in the clinic, and this was his way to make that point without confronting House directly. That was Wilson all right, always interfering for the sake of the needy.

"Does it matter?"

House supposed Johnson had a point. Who told him was irrelevant if what Johnson wanted to discuss was the demand itself. "It's my call."

"Do you resent that I made a suggestion about the inner workings of your department?"

"No," House lied, aware that he both disliked the idea of anyone telling him how to run his department and was defiant enough to go against any suggestion that he could. But that was not the whole story.

Johnson waited quietly.

"Is that all?" House asked.

"I'm waiting for your explanation. I need to know your reason since we are collaborating on this patient's care."

"It's like riding a bronco. If it bucks you off, you have to get back on it to tame it. He needs to get over it so he can get back to his life." House waited for a reaction to his bluntness.

"His life is so intertwined with this hospital, that it's going to be next to impossible for him to both get back to his life and leave behind the trauma. I don't believe Dr. Chase will be able to handle being in the clinic for a very long time, if ever."

"I don't think that's an option," House replied, aware of how cold it sounded. "If he doesn't want people to treat him like he's _that guy_, he can't expect special accommodations for his delicate psyche. Every other doctor in this hospital has to do their time in the clinic."

"Dr. House, you can not realistically expect him to be able to function adequately in that environment. At least, not yet. The responsibility placed on him for others' safety, the threat against his own life, the assault: any one of those factors is traumatizing. His situation was unimaginable. The clinic will trigger memories that can keep him from working effectively and unravel the progress he's made so far," Johnson explained.

"You don't _know_ that it will trigger memories for him," House argued. "It might if you keep _telling_ him it will."

"I don't think it's in _anyone's _best interest if he has some kind of flashback while trying to work with a patient. It's not in _your_ best interest if he's so emotionally crippled that he can never leave your home," Johnson paused, focusing on House's face. "Is it?" he asked pointedly.

House frowned, incensed by the accusation in Johnson's question. "I was shot." He pointed toward the place in his office where he had been standing when it happened. "Right about… _there_." He leaned back in his chair and made a show of looking from one side of the room to the other. "And, yet, here I am. Doing fine. I didn't move to a different office."

"Circumstances were a bit different, don't you think?"

"Not that different," House answered. "Both of us were nearly killed by sociopaths."

"Okay. But, you agree that there _were_ differences in the set of circumstances?"

House sighed, rolling his eyes. "This is the part where you try to drill into my brain, isn't it?"

Johnson waited quietly.

"Fine, I'll play along if it will get you the hell out of my office." He leaned forward again and held up one finger. "Let's see. I was shot. Chase was strangled. You're right. He shouldn't go back to the clinic."

Johnson watched and listened.

House held up another finger. "One psycho vs. two."

Johnson nodded, "Continue."

He held up a third finger. "Foreman was completely useless in both situations." He expected Johnson to react to that statement, hoping to get him to focus on one of his other patients for a while. "He probably needs counseling," he said with mock concern.

"I'll take that under advisement. Is there anything else?"

House put his hand down, tired of making a game of counting out reasons. "Chase didn't deserve what happened to him."

"You did?" The psychiatrist pounced on that statement like Kacey on a chicken flavored treat.

"No," House answered quickly, less Johnson attempt to drag him into routine counseling sessions as well. "Chase is good to his patients. At least I can live content with the knowledge that I'm an ass to my patients." The danger in goading patients who were emotionally charged to start with was that some would strike back verbally or even physically. It was a risk he was willing to take to get the information he needed. "Chase didn't provoke anyone."

"So you can rationalize being shot?"

He shrugged agreeably, no longer playing around. "If any doctor was going to get shot, it was going to be me," he laughed half-heartedly.

"Do you think Dr. Chase can rationalize what happened to him?"

House was momentarily puzzled by the question. "He probably _could_, not that whatever he came up with would be _rational_." There was no rationale to be found for what Chase had endured.

"What do you mean?"

"You know Catholics--they can find a way to blame themselves for anything. It's like they all had Jewish mothers."

Johnson nodded and moved back to the point at hand. "Do you honestly believe Dr. Chase should not work for you until he can work in the clinic? Was it always your intention to require that he work in the clinic or did you make that demand rashly?"

"I made it. That's what matters." House guessed that Wilson had told Johnson the details of the conversation from Friday night, including the interpretation that he used the demand of clinic hours just to get Chase to stop asking about coming back to work early.

"It's not all that matters. You can undo it."

"How about you answer a question for me, Johnson," House suggested, deflecting from the subject of the clinic. When Johnson did not protest he continued, "Why'd you switch his medication?"

"I felt it was appropriate."

"Why did you feel it was appropriate?" House needed to know if Chase was having suicidal thoughts.

"Dr. House, you know that would breach doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Dr. Johnson," House started in the same placating tone, "I'm his doctor too. I'm concerned."

"You're more than his doctor," Johnson replied quickly, a little too quickly.

House noticed the anomaly. It was a smile--a true, amused, _knowing_ smile on the least expressive man he had ever known. "Exactly what do you mean by that?" he asked. The smile disappeared immediately, as if Johnson realized he had let his guard down by showing some emotion.

"You are more than his doctor," Johnson repeated in his normal tone.

"How?"

"You don't need me to tell you how," Johnson said.

It was infuriating House. "I need you to tell me what you _think_ I am to Chase."

"You're his boss," Johnson answered evenly.

House could almost hear the "_for one thing"_ that did not finish Johnson's statement. "And?"

"You tell me," Johnson responded.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a right pain in the ass?"

Before Johnson could answer, House's phone rang.

"Thank God, important doctor stuff," he said, taking the receiver and saying "House," into the phone. "You can leave now," he told the other doctor.

Johnson started to stand.

"Wait," House said, motioning for him to sit down. "How long has he been there?" he asked the person on the phone. "I'm on my way." He turned to Johnson, "Chase is in the clinic."


	37. Chapter 37

Chase could feel acid rumbling in his stomach as he approached the glass doors leading into the clinic. Anxiety and hunger were twisting his insides into knots. He had not been able to eat all day, knowing from the moment that he woke up that he was going to do this. As he placed his hand on the metal bar to push open the door, his heart jumped a little bit higher in his chest, beating in quick pulses. _I can do this. I can do this,_ he repeated to himself.

It was near closing time for the clinic. The last of the patients accepted for the day had been called to their exam rooms. There were just a few people in the waiting area--a young man who was reading the _Ladies' Home Journal_, an elderly man wearing a trench coat and an ascot cap that was crooked because he was dozing with his cheek against the wall beside his chair, and two teenagers who looked incredibly bored. One of them, a girl about thirteen, looked up at Chase and smiled. Her older brother was playing a hand-held video game and did not notice the movement around him.

Chase glanced past the waiting area to the nurses' station. He saw the clipboard that held the doctors' sign-in sheets. The one that patients used had been removed already. Sarah, the stocky, twenty-something receptionist, was studying her computer screen. He remembered that the last day he had been here, she had just gotten her hair bleached. Now her dark roots were showing through the bottled blond. He remembered signing in that day, even though he was just there for a consult with Foreman. He had never signed out. Sarah looked up as he neared her, bringing his focus to the present.

"Dr. Chase?" Her voice clearly indicated how surprised she was to see him. She got to her feet and came around the desk quickly, greeting him with a hug. "It's so good to see you," she said sincerely.

"You too," he said, but he tensed as her arms went around him and her head came to rest against his chest. He knew that she knew what had happened. He patted her back a couple of times, but pulled away as quickly as he could without making her feel that he was rejecting her affection. It was not Sarah herself making him uncomfortable. He had always liked her and had probably flirted with her a little too much because she would let him exaggerate his time in/time out notations. He could smile at her and she would let him pass with signing out at the next hour when it was really twenty minutes until then. Few of the other doctors could get away with fudging their timesheets and she had a reputation for being strict. He thought that she might feel sorry for him since so many of his hours were done as Dr. House.

"How are you doing?" she asked, sounding more concerned than he would have expected. She looked him over as if assessing the damage. There was worry in her eyes.

"I'm all right," he responded, less than sure of his answer. The furrowing of her eyebrows let him know that she thought his voice sounded strange.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you weren't going to be back for a few more weeks."

"Sarah," Chase started, "I need to go in there." He jerked his head toward the hallway. "Is it empty now?" he asked. "Room four," he added, reminding himself that she may not know exactly which room he meant.

Of course, Sarah did know which room he meant. It was the room that had been blocked off by police tape for several days, the one that the janitor had scrubbed for hours, and the one that was the object of side-long glances even to this day. "Yeah, it's empty."

"Thanks," he nodded as he started toward the exam room.

"Dr. Chase," Sarah stopped him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded quietly.

"I could come with you," she offered with a little hesitation. "I mean, if you need someone."

He shook his head. "I need to do this," he said. He saw that her face was starting to flush. "But thanks for asking. That's sweet of you."

Sarah gave him a small smile and watched him make the long trip down the short hallway.

Chase paused at the door. It was closed. The doors all remained closed, even when the rooms were empty. A series of lights by each doorframe indicated via color code if a patient was ready to be seen by a nurse or doctor or if they were waiting for discharge. Chase wondered if that light system could have been used somehow to indicate a threat within the room.

He reached for the door handle. The thin metal lever felt ice cold in his hand as he pushed it down to enter the room. He noticed the steel gray keyhole nesting in the finished oak panel. Each room was locked at night as extra protection for the supplies kept in secure cabinets. He remembered the metallic click that he heard when Dave locked the door, further trapping him and Foreman. He let the door shut behind him and his breath caught as he surveyed the room.

It was sterile and designed exactly like every other room on the hallway. All traces of violent crimes had been washed away weeks ago. Yet he could envision Joe sitting on the exam table, legs bouncing nervously; Foreman holding back a laugh as Joe declared that he was pretty; and Dave looking agitated by the whole exchange. He could hear the crinkle of the paper beneath Joe as he got to his feet. He could see the echo of his own blood on the floor and his head spun for a moment while a pain shot through it, a brief reminder of how it felt to have his skull slammed into the tiles.

Chase caught himself by reaching out to the countertop and shook away the image of Joe. He had not come here to invite his memories to overpower him. He was going to prove to House that he could handle it. He was better. He had to remember that there was more to the clinic than being attacked there and the only way to do that was to face the clinic again.

He reminded himself that despite the drudgery of working there, the clinic was a good place, a place where they helped people who could not afford healthcare. He imagined a normal patient: a fifty-three year old Caucasian female, seventy-five kilograms, upper respiratory infection. She had short, dark hair that had not been washed in a couple of days because she had been in bed hoping to get well without having to see a doctor when she could not pay. She was a working-class woman whose illness had eventually overpowered her pride. He would listen to her heart and lungs, look in her ears and nose and mouth, write a couple of prescriptions for generic drugs, give her all the samples that he could, and send her on her way. Simple. He could handle that. He imagined turning to leave the room when the patient stopped him.

"But I was raped," she said to his still turned back.

Chase felt cold. He turned back to face the patient. She was undressed with her legs in stirrups, covered by a sheet. "You need to do an exam," she told him. Her lips were bruised and her eyes were red and she still clutched a crumpled tissue in her hand.

"No," he told her. "I can't. There's no nurse. There has to be a nurse. I can't be alone with you." He turned to the door, but it was locked. He pounded on it, just as his heart pounded in his chest. He needed help. A nurse had to help him.

"Never mind her," came a gruff voice.

Hesitantly, Chase turned around. The woman was gone. Instead, there was a sixty-eight year old man. He had weathered brown skin and a yellowish tinge to his fingernails. His shoes were off and his hairless feet were in terrible condition with calloused heels and toes and misshapen yellowing nails. They had a purplish hue due to poor circulation. He was diabetic and wheezed like a smoker. His belly was quite rounded and the state of the infection on his ankle told Chase that his blood sugar was not under control. Chase examined the foot and leg and declared that there was some nerve damage because the man could not feel him press a metal pin into certain areas. The ulcerated sore was particularly nasty, oozing puss and a foul stench. "You're going to lose your foot if you don't get this healed. You have got to take better care of yourself." Chase would give the man an IV of rocephin, and prescribe some oral antibiotics, a potent antibiotic cream, and refer him on to the wound care clinic where they might try a hyperbaric chamber.

"Who are you to tell someone to take better care of themselves?" asked a thirty-seven year old female in an Australian accent. She could have been quite stunning; but her long naturally blond hair was frazzled mess, her polished nails were chipped, her lipstick was too red against her pale skin, and her blue-green eyes were bloodshot. Her sea green tailored skirt and jacket were crinkled and stained and she was oblivious to the lengthy run in the too-dark hose covering her legs. Her earrings dangled and her bangle bracelet clanked against her diamond crested watch as she waved her cigarette in the air. She still wore a cluster of diamonds on her left hand though her husband had left her long ago. She reeked of the amalgamation of pricey liquids, namely her perfume and her booze.

Chase's throat felt tight as he breathed in the stench of her bad habits.

"Nothing to say?" she asked scathingly. "Look at you, a big shot doctor just like your father. But you can't even take care of yourself, can you?"

"Mum," he said, searching for an excuse, an explanation.

"How _dare_ you tell them I hit you?"

His voice was soft, barely voicing his shame, "You did."

She snorted an insincere laugh as she rolled her eyes, "Oh, the poor baby."

Chase had no idea what to say to her. His memory became a little bit sharper as he watched her take a long drag from her cigarette. As she had become more and more possessed by her addiction, she had stopped expressing any remorse for anything she did to hurt him. He fondly remembered when she used to be sorry if she raised her hand to him and it ripped his heart in two when he realized that that qualified as a _fond_ memory. He recalled the way she pressed a cool, wet cloth to his bleeding lip and brushed away his tears, then wrapped her arms around him and cooed, "Mummy's sorry. She didn't mean to."

He felt sick, realizing how young he had been in that memory. Seven? Eight? He could not be sure, but he had become so desperate for affection that the gentle touch of an apology had been treasured. He blinked back tears as he watched her, refusing to let her see how much power she still had to hurt him. His heart ached with love for her and with the gnawing emptiness that came from his inability to win her love in return.

"What?" she snapped. "So I hit you every once in a while," she shrugged. "You deserved it."

"No," he said. "I didn't."

"Every fight your father and I ever had was about you. If you hadn't been such a lousy disappointment, your father never would have traded me for a younger model to try to get the son he wanted. Too bad he started firing blanks," she snickered, causing her son to frown at the crassness that had come through more and more with her continued abuse of alcohol.

"I did everything _he_ wanted. I did everything _you_ wanted," he remembered trying so hard to please both of them; thinking that if he could be good enough, he could make them happy enough to stop fighting. It was true that they fought over him. His mother wanted him to take music and dance and drama and his father wanted him to play sports and chess and go into the advanced classes. He had been trapped in the whirlwind of fulfilling all their expectations, but none of it ever satisfied them. Eventually, all the extracurricular activities ceased because his father was absent and his mother was wasted and neither cared what he did. "It wasn't my place to make your marriage work." A little voice told him that he was most certainly not the subject of every fight. There had been suspicions and allegations that had nothing to do with him.

"You and your father were the two biggest mistakes I ever made. I had a life before he came along, you know. I had friends and I had fun. I didn't need him or his money. He needed me. Don't you forget that, Robert. He needed me."

"I'm sorry." No matter what she said or did, he wished she had been happy, even if it meant he had never existed.

"You should be," her voice was icy. "You were late. You let me die." Her whole body took on a blue tinge.

"I," Chase shook his head, looking down at his feet, not wanting to see her like that again. He did not know what to say to her. "I didn't know," he said weakly.

"He couldn't help me either, you know."

Chase looked up, startled by his father's voice.

"He was so absorbed by his anger with me that he missed the fact that I was dying. Not the best doctor, is he?" He puffed on a cigar that a had a sweet aroma.

"You could have told me," Chase rounded, as his father became his sole focus. "You knew."

"You were the student of the so-called greatest diagnostician in the world!" Rowan Chase shook his head, "Slow learner," he said in a condescending tone.

"I--" Chase had too many thoughts at one time to put any of them into a sentence. "I'm not stupid," he said, knowing it sounded pathetic. He had failed to recognize his father's symptoms because his judgment had been clouded by his emotions. He should have been more suspicious when Rowan showed up at his workplace. The man had been to New York City the year before and not bothered to even say hello though we was just across the river from New Jersey. Chase would have been glad to make the trip into the city to spend time with him, even if it was only for five minutes. He told himself he did not care, but it hurt that he mattered so little to his father. "You would rather have seen me fail a test than to say a proper goodbye?" he asked, finding nerve that he did not know he had.

"You had a lot to learn," Rowan shrugged.

"Of course I did!" Chase exclaimed. "You don't go to med school and walk out as House. You don't even walk out as… you. It takes time and experience--"

"Tell that to the woman you killed."

"You're not blameless. It was my mistake, but you set the stage. Did you get some joy in knowing I would find out you died from cancer and realize I was too stupid to notice you were sick? Was it one final blow from beyond the grave? One last lesson? I get it. I can't let my personal crisis affect a patient. Thanks a lot, Dad."

Rowan gave a satisfied smile, nodded one time, and vanished.

Chase repeated silently what he had just said to his father. _I can't let my personal crisis affect a patient._

"You can't get rid of _me_ so easily."

Chase's blood ran cold. He was certain his heart ceased its natural rhythm. He stood paralyzed as Joe Smith approached him.

"I'm going to be with you, every step you take," Joe warned, reaching out to stroke Chase's neck. "Every minute, every day."

Terrified of what would happen next, Chase swallowed the lump in his throat and closed his eyes. Dave and Foreman were watching quietly. He was startled when he felt Joe's mouth against his neck, his lips parting to release his warm, slippery tongue. Chase whimpered as teeth grazed his skin. "You'll never be free," Joe whispered close to his ear.

Chase started to cry out, but his scream was muffled as Joe's mouth covered his own. He looked for the panic button. Cuddy had promised that each room would have panic buttons installed. He realized it was under the edge of the counter, hidden just enough that someone could discretely call for help--so long as he could get to it. He was too far from it to reach and there was no way to get to it without rousing Dave's suspicion. Foreman. If only Foreman would turn around, he could help. He could get to the button. "Foreman!" he called when Joe moved his oral assault back to his throat. "Foreman! Help me!"

Foreman's back remained turned and Dave's gun remained in his hand, ready to fire if either of them stepped out of line.

"Foreman," Chase repeated. "Please," he begged.

"Foreman, help me," Joe instructed without even raising his voice.

Foreman came forward, looking to Joe for direction.

"Shut him up," Joe ordered.

Foreman nodded. He stood behind Chase and threw his left hand over Chase's mouth. He held him tightly across the shoulders with his right arm, pinning him within his grip. "Be quiet and do what they say or we'll both die," Foreman ordered. There was no compassion to be found in his voice.

The tears Chase had held back from his mother began to slip from his eyes, stopping to rest at the edge of Foreman's palm.

Chase felt Foreman pushing him, forcing him downward. Soon his knees buckled and he hit the floor. He felt like everything inside of him was withering and collapsing upon itself, while his body rested against Foreman's legs for support. "I don't… I can't… not again," he plead as Joe came toward him.

This was not supposed to happen. Cuddy had promised better security. There were metal detectors at the entrance of the hospital now. He had passed through them himself. He looked toward Dave. His gun had disappeared. If there was no gun, then why was he complying with them?

"No!" Chase shouted at Joe. "No! I don't have to. Go away!"

Chase found himself on his knees on the floor. He was shaking and covered in sweat. He pushed away the images of Joe, Dave, and Foreman, focusing on the tiles instead. He was so dizzy now that he suspected that he might pass out, so he crawled far enough to put his back to the wall and rest his head against it to steady himself. "Nightmares," he whispered to himself. "They're just nightmares. I'm awake and having nightmares." He inhaled deeply. "This was a bad idea," he muttered, keeping his eyes closed so the room would not spin as badly as it did when they were open.

The floor and the wall were both cold. He pulled his legs to his chest, trembling. "Nothing is real," he told himself, leaning forward so that he could wrap his arms around his legs, trying to get warm. He felt sweat dripping down his back and he caught a chill.

Then House was standing above him removing his jacket. "What are you doing here?" he asked, draping it over Chase's own leather jacket to give the shivering young man another layer of clothing.

"Getting better, can't you tell?" Chase asked the figment of his imagination. He pulled the jacket around his shoulders, soaking in the warmth and the fragrance that was unique to House. He inhaled deeply, finding it soothing. House smelled much nicer than his parents with their tobacco and booze and colognes. He smelled like his apartment and that faint odor made Chase feel safe.

"Yes, I see that," House replied. "Are you going to get up or do you expect the cripple to get on the floor with you?"

"You might as well sit. You're not real anyway. Besides, I'm dizzy. The floor's good for now."

House pressed his back against the wall and then slid to the floor, the easiest way for him to make the adjustment. He waited a moment without saying anything. Chase sat quietly beside him, keeping his head against his knees. He was pale and looked as if he might throw up if forced to move. "So… what's going on in the clinic this evening?"

"Facing my demons," Chase answered very matter-of-factly. He turned to face House, still leaning forward to steady himself from the dizziness.

"That makes me a demon, then?" House asked.

"You are the one making me come back here," Chase reminded him.

"It is one of my more dastardly demands, isn't it?"

"Yep," Chase nodded.

"So, what other demons have you _faced_?" He said the last word hesitantly since he was not sure what it implied.

"Saw a couple of patients and my dead mother and my dead father and the man who raped me and his accomplices." He gave the list with no emotion. "Then you showed up."

"How are the patients?"

"Imaginary."

"That's a relief," House said. "How were your folks?" he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to ask about the deceased parents.

"My mum was… not very nice…" Chase admitted. "I still love her though," he assured House.

"Keep telling yourself that," House said with only a hint of sarcasm.

"I'm not sure why," he confessed as his voice trailed off. "There must have been good times," he offered with enthusiasm that quickly faded. "I just don't remember them."

"And your father?"

"Was a bloody bastard, to be honest," Chase answered with much more conviction than he had regarding his mother.

"I thought he was a bit of an ass myself," House agreed.

Chase nodded.

"What about the others?" House prodded, refusing to call them by their pseudonyms. They were real people who had really gotten away with the crime that had sent Chase on this journey into the depths of his own personal hell.

Chase sat up and thought about his answer for a little while. "It was the gun," he answered. "The gun is why… I had to… do stuff." It was evidently difficult for him to explain. "I'm not helpless. I can defend myself, fight, you know, run, at least. But the gun… I didn't have a choice. They would have killed… someone."

House was quiet as he listened intently to every word. He wondered if Chase had paused before saying _someone_ because he had debated whether or not to name himself, Foreman, or the innocent bystanders in the clinic.

"If you get rid of the gun, they don't have that much power," Chase continued.

"That's true."

"Do you think they could bring a gun in now with the metal detectors and all?"

"I won't say it's impossible, but it would be difficult."

"So it's safe now?"

"Saf_er,_" he stressed the last syllable to avoid making a statement that would sound absolute.

"They went away," Chase told House. "When I realized they couldn't get the gun inside, they went away."

"That's good," House did not bother to remind Chase that there were at least a dozen other ways the attackers could have forced his compliance. Chase was smart enough to know that. If his fear was heavily rooted in the threat that the gun imposed, he had to work through that phobia. House was pleased that the rational part of his mind had interrupted Chase's hallucination, flashback, panic attack, or whatever it was, to make the "demons" go away.

"You're real, aren't you?" Chase asked. The jacket around his shoulders felt as real as the floor where he was sitting.

House nodded, "In the flesh."

"So you think I'm nuts now?"

"I thought you were nuts before," House answered. "Now I think you're a nut who's making some progress."

"Progressive nut," Chase summarized with a bitter laugh. "That's me, all right."

House took in the sight of his underling. He was a bit of a mess. His hair was still damp at his collar and he still shivered every once in a while despite the cover of two jackets. He looked tired and pale and sick. Panic attacks could do that to a person. "Chase," he started, his voice serious. "If you tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it, but I may have been wrong."

Chase said nothing, but a look of wonder was etched on his face.

"What I'm saying is, it might be too early for you to come back to the clinic regularly," he relinquished his previous demand. "_But_, if you can come in here and face whatever it is you faced and not leave on a stretcher bound for the psych ward, eventually, you'll be able to handle it," he encouraged. "And I'll expect you to do my hours just like old times."

"You think so?" Chase asked.

"I think you're pretty brave to be here right now. Sometimes I wish you didn't take everything I say so seriously though."

"Really?"

"No," House smiled, changing his mind.

"So…?" Chase looked at him hopefully.

"When you come back to work, no clinic."

"When can I--"

"We'll figure that out later," House interrupted, still hesitant to clear Chase for work. "Right now, I'd like to get off the floor."

"House, thank you," Chase said with heart-felt sincerity. "I wouldn't be able to get through this without you." He was sure he was saying too much, but he had to voice his appreciation.

House saw the gratitude in Chase's eyes. He may never know why he had landed in the role of Chase's… whatever it was that he was to Chase… but for once he did not question the motives behind someone else's words to him. "Go ahead, I know you want to," he rolled his eyes.

Chase smiled and in a quick motion, threw his arms around House in an embrace, "Thank you."

House broke the hug, "Don't mention it."

"I am grateful," Chase said, getting to his feet, then helping House stand.

"No, don't mention it. To anyone. If people find out I'm giving out hugs, the public demand would overwhelm me. Wilson would want one, then Cameron would want one, then--"

"Foreman wouldn't want one," Chase interrupted with a smile, returning House's jacket.

House feigned a hurt expression as he pulled on the jacket.

"Cuddy might," Chase soothed. "So, how did you know I was here anyway?"

"Your friend Sarah called me because she was worried about you when you didn't come out after ten minutes and had the door locked. Speaking of, that quack Johnson is waiting outside."

"Guess I should thank her," Chase mused. "But I don't want to deal with Johnson right now," he grumbled.

"Me either," House agreed, opening the door to the hallway. He had ordered Johnson to stay at the nurses' station so that he could find out what kind of state Chase was in before letting anyone else see him. He pointed out that Sarah had called him, not Johnson and that Johnson was only there by accident.

"Is there a back way out of here?"

House was pleased that Chase asked. He was bouncing back from this panic episode a little faster than he had before. Before they could formulate a plan of escape, Johnson greeted them in the hallway.

"Robert, how are you doing?" he asked.

"Good," Chase answered. He noticed that all the stragglers in the clinic were gone. Only Sarah remained, sitting behind her desk but watching the men in the hallway.

"You should come with me. I think we need to discuss what happened here today."

"I'm tired," Chase complained, reluctant to go relive any of this with his psychiatrist.

"I'm sure you are," Johnson agreed. "But we need--"

"I'm taking care of him," House interrupted. "He's my patient and I want him to go home and rest."

Johnson opened his mouth as if he were going to argue, but stopped. "Robert, I need to know if you're okay before I release you to Dr. House's care."

Chase nodded. "I all right, Dr. Johnson. I'm just tired." He looked to House and then back to Johnson. "Don't worry."

"Very well then. If you need to see me tomorrow, call me."

"I told you he wouldn't break," House asserted as Johnson turned to walk away.

_AN: I'll let you in on a secret. I really like this chapter--a lot. I hope you do too. Please let me know what you think!_


	38. Chapter 38

_AN: FYI: I've re-edited the first 37 chapters, and added a timeline which is why you'll see dates in this chapter. My aim was for this to be the last chapter, but it's not. Sorry to keep you waiting so long for an update. Please let me know what you think:) Thanks to Alice, Amanda, and Jay for being sounding boards!_

_Chapter 38 - Snapshots, part I_

Reluctantly, Chase gave in to House's way of thinking and agreed to take the rest of his leave of absence. He may have battled some demons in the clinic, but he also convinced himself that he needed more counseling. This experience had not only brought him a new world of lingering emotional obstacles, but had also opened the floodgate of his memories, convincing him to use this opportunity to recover from more than just his recent trauma.

His first order of business was to find himself a new place to live. When he and House left the clinic, they went back to House's apartment and Chase, exhausted and covered in sweat, immediately took a shower. He stepped out of the bathroom and heard House letting Wilson into the apartment.

"How is he?"

"Two guesses," House replied.

"He's either fine or he had a psychotic break or he's asleep," Wilson speculated, keeping his voice low. "Where is he?" he asked, noting that Chase was not in the living room sleeping.

"That was three guesses," House admonished.

Wilson cocked his head to one side as if to ask why House was being playful.

"Three good guesses. He had a psychotic break, but just a little one," he added, noting the panic on Wilson's face. It was a look he knew well, having been the cause of it numerous times. "And now he's fine."

"Did you… drug him?" Wilson asked slowly, as if he the idea only occurred to him as he said it. He kneeled down to pet Kacey who was rubbing against his shins.

"I didn't have to drug him. I'm telling you, he's fine. We came home and he's taking a shower. You must've broken some laws getting here this fast. Who put you on red alert anyway?"

Wilson looked perplexed. "You did. Remember? You called and told me to bring food and to hurry."

"Because we're hungry. What'd you bring?" he asked, reaching for the bag that was in Wilson's left hand.

"Sandwiches," Wilson answered.

"You think he who was traumatized into vegetarianism will eat a sandwich?"

"House, that's mean."

"It's _strange_," House reached for the bag. Not eating. Overeating. Those were common reactions to sexual assault. But changing one's preferences? "There's soup in here too," he realized, seeing the three take-out bowls at the top. "Let me guess: potato? Tomato? Broccoli-cheddar?" He set the bag on the countertop while Wilson shed his coat.

"Corn chowder," Wilson frowned. He had never before heard types of soup listed with such an accusatory tone. "He was strangled and he's afraid of getting choked or something. His voice still gets weak. Maybe his throat is still sore. Why does it matter to you anyway?"

"He could choke on a pretzel. Ask any world leader."

"Haven't seen him eating any of those," Wilson reminded House.

"He could choke on a string bean too." House shook his head, "You know the reason you don't have kids is that you'd let them get away with murder."

"Yes, House. Vegetarianism. It's right up there with vagrancy and vandalism. Where _did_ we go wrong?"

"I'm just saying, it's _weird_."

"He's being careful. Can't blame him…"

Chase stood in the hallway, tuning out the rest of what Wilson had to say. He stared at the floor for a few minutes, still out of their sight. He had to stop letting fear run his life, whether it was fear of choking, the deeper fears of the memories that choking might bring to mind, or the fear of being alone in his own apartment. He had become this terror-filled person who needed to be taken care of instead of the person who took care of others. Even before he had been forced to take care of his mother because no one else would, he had leaned toward service-oriented aspirations. He wanted to serve God and man by becoming a priest. When that did not work out, he shifted his focus to serving others by putting his penchant for sciences and mathematics to use by becoming a doctor.

Ever since he had gotten released from the hospital, he had disrupted House's life. House, in turn, disrupted Wilson's life. Or maybe this _was_ their life: watching DVDs, drinking beer, eating junk food. Still, he had stumbled into it with an invitation that never would have come under other circumstances. While he enjoyed their camaraderie, he vowed to himself to put an end to his dependence upon them. If that meant they would let him out of their circle and never look back, so be it.

He never let on that he heard their conversation when he walked into the kitchen to find them discussing some transvestite nurse, joined them at the table, tried the corn chowder, then casually announced with a bored sigh that he was sick of soup, and attempted to eat a chicken salad sandwich. It was uncomfortable, but not as blisteringly painful as he had expected it to be.

One small victory.

_February 6_

He spent the next day researching real estate in the area, intrigued by a new gated community that had several brand new homes available. Each home had a fenced in yard that would provide privacy and extra security. He also took stock of his financial status, realized he had a certificate of deposit that was up for renewal that month and that it would make a huge dent in the price of the house, should he decide to use part of his inheritance for something other than collecting interest. His checking and savings accounts were in impeccable shape. He really needed to move some of those funds because the interest rates were low. He made a call to the agency representing the builder's company and got a next-day appointment for viewing.

"Want to go house-hunting with me?" Chase asked.

"He's at his desk," Cameron answered, surprised that Chase would call her cell phone while she was at work.

"Not that House," Chase laughed.

"You mean a house, house?"

"Yes. Are you busy tomorrow?"

"Busy? Only if you call diagnosing thirty elementary school kids with a twenty-four hour stomach virus _busy_. I'd rather be beaten than have to spend another day in the clinic." She cringed at her own choice of words which may not have been the best, all things considered.

"Can you get out of work?" Chase asked.

"I have about five weeks of vacation time and about a month's worth of sick leave. Not a problem."

_February 7_

They decided to meet at his apartment so that they could take his Explorer, but she could drive. _Damn ARVs_, he thought, counting down the days until he popped that last pill.

"Don't let me buy the seven-hundred-twenty-one-thousand dollar house," Chase begged Cameron. "I fell in love with it from the photographs, but I don't _need _it. I don't even know what I would do with it," he chuckled. "But it's stunning."

Cameron coughed, choking on the price tag. "Can you _afford_ a seven-hundred-twenty-one-thousand dollar house on our salary?" She noticed how sheepish he looked when she asked, "You _can_ afford it, can't you?" she gasp. "I thought your dad cut you out of his will!"

"Mum didn't," he answered. "A house is a good investment. It will only increase in value. Besides, it's not like we'll be fellows forever."

"Are you sure you want a house though? That's quite a commitment to make. I mean, what if you don't stay in the Princeton area? You know, once the fellowship is over, you might get an offer somewhere else. Some place warmer," she added with a nervous laugh. It sounded like she was discouraging him from staying and that was not her intention. "Don't get me wrong. I think it would be great if you stayed here."

He was hesitant to answer, but decided to voice his thoughts to her. "If I start running now, I'll never stop." He knew he could not live with House forever and he knew that he would never be able to rest easy in his apartment since the attackers had broken into it. He would always fear that they would come back. Somewhere along the way, he had lost all hope that they would ever be caught.

"What do you mean?"

"I could take off running, but if I do, they'll always be right behind me. In my mind, at least." Chase knew he could not live like that, always afraid that they were going to eventually find him again and follow through on their threats. "The old me would have run, but then I'd never have any peace of mind. I'm going to do exactly what the old me wouldn't. I'm putting down roots. I'm staying right here."

"The old you?" Cameron asked, sadly. "Do you think this has changed you that much?"

"That person doesn't exist anymore," Chase answered decisively, sounding far less melodramatic than the words themselves might indicate.

"Maybe he's just hard to find right now," Cameron offered. "You can get back to who you were before. It'll just take time."

Chase knew she was trying to be optimistic, but he had a different view. That person had essentially been alone, or at least thought he was. "I don't want him back."

_February 8_

Of course, he was the first one to arrive. He always got to work promptly, and almost always before Foreman, so it was no surprise that he would get to their counseling session first. He resented it. If he had walked into the office late, it would appear that he was not serious about getting better. It could be taken as a step backward for him, a refusal to deal with Foreman, thus an obstacle in his route of recovery.

"Robert, is there anything you'd like to tell me before Eric arrives?" Johnson asked, casually leaning against his desk.

Chase stopped bouncing one leg nervously. He kept his hands loosely together and inhaled, taking a moment to mull over the question. He was certain that Johnson would want to talk about his visit to the clinic eventually, but also that Foreman's arrival would cut short that discussion. It would be saved for another day, one of many that he knew he would be spending with the psychiatrist. And he was okay with that. "I bought a house," he announced. "And I'm not bipolar."

"Why did you feel the need to clarify that?" Johnson asked.

"Because I know that spontaneously spending large sums of money is a symptom of BPD. I've been depressed, so I don't want you to think I've gone further off the deep end. I bought a house because those men broke into my apartment and I wouldn't feel safe there anymore, at least not being there alone. Even though I feel safe with House, I can't sleep on his recliner the rest of my life. I found a nice, gated community and a house with a fenced in yard. Financially, it makes more sense to buy than to rent anyway. I'll actually have something to show for my investment." He hoped he explained thoroughly enough that Johnson would find his logic perfectly sane and his decision to be one in the right direction. "After I move in, I'm going to get a guard dog," he added. "I just have to wait for the deal to close."

"You bought a house?" Foreman asked. He had entered the room without knocking just as Chase revealed his plan to get a dog.

Chase looked to the door. Foreman was standing there, dressed in a gray suit. He looked as if he were coming to work, not like a man on suspension. "Yes," he answered, wondering if he was supposed to get up and shake Foreman's hand. He did not.

Johnson did. "It's nice to see you, Eric."

Foreman nodded without saying anything. It was obvious that he did not share the sentiment.

"Have a seat," Johnson directed, waving his hand broadly, leaving it up to Foreman to decide if he would sit on the couch with Chase or in the chair that Johnson usually took.

Chase, suspicious that every move and every word was under scrutiny, was glad that he did not have to make that decision. The couch cushions shifted slightly as Foreman took his place on the other end. Chase was reminded of sitting on House's couch staring at the wall on that horrid day that Foreman came to visit. He looked away from Foreman, hoping that he was not thinking of the same incident. He did not notice as his foot started bouncing again.

Johnson quietly sat in his chair. It was as if he were waiting for one of them to break the silence that had descended upon the room.

As far as Chase was concerned, they could all stay just like this until the session was over. He had no desire to share any of his thoughts or feelings with Foreman. Johnson must have decided that they were not going to voluntarily start a conversation because he took the first step.

"Eric." He turned to each of them as he spoke. "Robert," he paused. "Do either of you have anything to say?"

Chase shook his head.

"I don't," Foreman answered.

"Do you think you'll be able to work together if you won't even speak to each other?"

"We spoke," Chase protested.

"I asked him about his house," Foreman replied.

"I answered," Chase added.

"What was the quality of that exchange?" Johnson prodded.

Chase dared to look at Foreman. "Short and superficial," he supplied.

Foreman shrugged, "That works."

"Is that good enough?"

"Look, it's not like we were friends before. There's no reason for anything to change," Chase explained, remembering that Joe and Dave were also under the assumption that the two doctors were friends. "He never liked me, but we've worked together just fine for years," Chase explained, eyes blazing in defiance.

Johnson turned to Foreman, giving him a chance to confirm or refute what Chase said.

"That's not entirely true," Foreman disagreed.

Chase rolled his eyes, "Don't lie."

"I'm not."

Chase glared.

Foreman closed his eyes and shook his head, "Look, I don't even know you, not really."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Chase countered, trying to sound nonchalant. He did not want to come across as if Foreman liking him or not had any relevance.

"Look, I know you don't want to admit that things have changed, but they have. You saved my life and I can't forget that."

"I wish you could," Chase muttered, looking away from him.

"No, you wish I'd forget that you were--"

"_Don't say it_!" Chase snapped, raising his voice.

"Why?" Johnson interjected.

Chase closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and shrugged.

Foreman started to respond, but Johnson held up his hand and shook his head.

A few minutes ticked slowly away. Chase knew that Johnson had no intention of letting him get away without answering the question. His reason circled around in his mind, but it did not make sense, so he was afraid to give it.

They waited.

"I don't want him to know," Chase answered in a soft whisper.

Foreman felt his chest burning. He had hoped that Chase's ramblings about his not actually being there had all been the product of a severely disturbing flashback. Yet, here Chase was, lucid and still hanging onto some kind of strange fantasy that he did not know what had happened. "I was there," Foreman argued, his voice showing no anger or malice, only confusion.

"Exactly," Chase answered. He took a deep breath, intent on keeping his emotions in check.

"I don't understand," Foreman said, watching Chase, wishing the other man would at least look at him. He noticed that Johnson was quietly watching both of them, but paying closer attention to Chase. He wondered if Johnson thought Chase was going to have another flashback.

"If you don't know, it will explain why," Chase revealed. His voice was barely audible. He watched his own hands, tapping his fingers together in random patterns.

Foreman looked to Johnson for direction. Johnson nodded, giving him permission to speak, perhaps wanting to remain silent so as not to distract Chase. "Why, what?" Foreman asked, also keeping his voice low. It struck him how tenaciously a traumatized person could hold on to an idea even when they could not explain themselves.

"Why it didn't matter," Chase shivered, continuing to look away from both of the men.

Foreman looked to Johnson for help.

"What didn't matter?" Johnson asked.

The answer was just within the grasp of Chase's conscious thoughts, but he resisted facing it, falling into another short silence.

Johnson approached Chase and kneeled on the floor, putting himself at eye level with his patient. "What didn't matter?"

Foreman watched them, feeling as if he were intruding.

"He was killing me," Chase answered very slowly and very softly.

"And that didn't matter?" Johnson asked, also keeping his voice low. "How do you know?"

"There were three people in the room. One was killing me. One was watching." He took an extended pause. "One turned away." The cracking of his heart was almost audible.

Foreman felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Chase _did_ blame him for not doing more to help him. Before he could say anything, he caught Johnson's signal for him to be quiet. The psychiatrist must have seen this as some sort of breakthrough for Chase.

"What did that tell you?" Johnson prodded gently.

"It didn't matter if I died. I saved his life, but I was just a body, an object to him." He described his association with Joe, then moved on to talk about Foreman without clarifying himself to the therapist. "We worked together for three years, but he turned his back." His eyes were glassy and he barely saw Johnson's face in front of his own. The image of the clinic room was like a cloud in front of him. He saw Joe's face and his own hands pulling against Joe's wrists. He knew he was losing the battle and looked to the side, searching for Foreman, for some moment of contact with another human and a glimpse of compassion. All he saw a lab coat, broad shoulders covered with white cotton. "I was going to die alone," his voice cracked.

"Why would it have been better if Dr. Foreman hadn't been there?"

"It would mean that he didn't _know_, instead of he didn't _care_." Chase closed his eyes. "He wouldn't have turned his back on a patient. He wouldn't have let a stranger die. I shouldn't want him to care, but I do," he admitted shamefully. "I know that's stupid. I know it doesn't make sense!"

"It wasn't _you_!" Foreman interrupted, paying no mind to whether or not Johnson wanted him to speak. "It wasn't _you_, it was what they were _doing_ to you. I couldn't do anything to help and I couldn't watch them either, so I tried to block out what was happening. I didn't know he was strangling you, I promise. I didn't know that! I would have tried harder. At least, I think I would have. I want to think I would have done something. I'm sorry, Chase!"

"You told me you didn't care. You just wanted to get out. I don't understand that. How could you hate anyone that much?"

"That's not what I meant!" Foreman protested. "I didn't want to get hurt, but I didn't want you go get hurt either. It mattered. Believe me, it mattered. I've never felt so helpless in my life. I wanted it to be over and I wanted them to go away so I could help you. I couldn't do anything," he repeated.

"I know you couldn't," Chase said. "I don't understand myself. I don't blame you for what happened. But it's not fair that you were there. Why did it have to be you, your hands holding me there? I still feel _your_ hands, just as much as I still feel _his _hands," he admitted. "And this stupid spearmint oil doesn't make the nightmares stop," he added for Johnson's benefit. "If I could just sleep for _one _night without waking up thinking someone's holding me down or choking me or…" he let the sentence trail off, embarrassed to admit he was still having trouble resting.

Foreman did not know how to respond. The reference to spearmint oil was completely lost on him; but he gave it little thought, too absorbed by Chase's words. It was a strange feeling, knowing he was the subject of someone else's nightmares.

"I believe your dreams will be less vivid when you finish the course of post-exposure prophylaxis," Johnson encouraged.

Chase nodded, hoping the doctor was right.

"Do you realize that's the first time you've said something wasn't fair, at least to me?" Johnson asked Chase.

"So?" Chase asked, seeing no significance.

"Many victims get bogged down in declarations of what's fair and what's not. I expect it. Of all the things that happened to you, the one thing you've declared as unfair was that Dr. Foreman was in that room assisting, albeit by force, the men who attacked you. Tell me why it bothers you."

Chase frowned. Sometimes Johnson was the king of stupid questions. "We have to see each other every day. We have to be reminded every day."

"Do you believe that you wouldn't think about what happened to you if you didn't see Dr. Foreman?"

"No," Chase answered honestly. His life had changed dramatically. He could not foresee a day when he did not give a thought to this. He had barely seen Foreman for weeks; but the attack plagued his mind, whether it was his waking thought, the last thing on his mind when he went to sleep, or his dreams. They just did not comprehend how much more anxiety he experienced when Foreman was around and he was too ashamed to share that with them. He did not want to risk losing his job because he was having trouble facing a coworker.

"Eric, do you think this was unfair too?"

"Yeah," Foreman said. "I wish it hadn't been me who called for that consult. I wish it hadn't been me that had to help them. Mostly, I wish it had never happened at all." Out of deference to Chase, he avoided referring to the attack as what it really was. He had noticed that Johnson had done the same.

"What can you do about it?" Johnson asked them both.

"Nothing," Chase answered despondently.

"Fix it," Foreman answered.

Both Chase and Johnson looked to Foreman for further explanation.

Foreman was surprised to find that Chase was facing him. "You're afraid of me," he told Chase, keeping his voice calm.

Chase shook his head, starting to protest, but lost the words. Foreman was right.

"You are," Foreman asserted. "That's why you felt threatened and flipped out when I came to see you. It's why you act… kind of loopy around me."

Chase narrowed his eyes, angered by what he was hearing, "I'm not crazy."

"No, you're not. You're just scared." He saw the humiliation playing across his cohort's face. "And I understand why." He paused, certain that he had both Chase and Johnson's full attention. "I didn't want to, but I did help them. I was part of what happened to you. And, like you said, we weren't friends before. My hands don't mean anything to you other than the instruments that restrained you."

Chase shifted uncomfortably.

"We don't know each other," he reiterated. "We never took the time. So we have to take time now. I want to be more than the guy that held you there. More than the guy who blabbed everything to half the hospital." He extended his hand to Chase. "Please. Change what my hands mean to you."

Chase stared at the hand in front of him--Foreman's hand, a hand that aided the men who attacked him. It was also a hand that defended his reputation against those slandering interns. Slowly, he reached for it, pressing his fingers to Foreman's palm. A chill went through him. For a split second, he felt the memory of weight on his shoulders, then the fingers curled against his own palm and there was a soft pressure as Foreman shook his hand warmly.

"Thanks for putting yourself between me and a bullet," Foreman said, his brown eyes warmer than Chase had ever seen them.

Chase nodded, "Thanks for punching out that intern."

Foreman smiled, knowing that he probably should not show glee over what he had done given that he was in the psychiatrist's presence, but it did not matter because Chase was looking at him with a hint of trust. "Anytime."

It was not going to be a fast or easy undertaking, but the bridge between them had started to mend.


	39. Chapter 39

_February 26_

"I think the parents are abusing her," Foreman suggested.

Chase had come back to work just in time to find a new case. An eleven month old baby had been admitted with multiple fractures and spasms of the eye muscles.

Foreman continued, "I think someone hit her head and…"

"There's no evidence of trauma to the head," House reminded him. "And there's no bruising on her flesh, but there are fractures in her legs."

"Then why did social services take her away?" Cameron asked, skeptically. "Why won't they let her parents see her?" She looked to Chase, concerned that this case might drudge up memories about his mother if House really had been right about her. He kept reading the file.

"Because she has multiple fractures in her legs and her eye is wobbling like a Weeble," House answered, frustrated.

Chase studied the file, reading through the results of the earlier tests and blood work carefully. With the fate of a baby in their hands, he had no time to worry about his own problems.

He was still living with House for the time being, just until he could move into his new home. The agency was working with him to speed along the process of closing the deal. Mrs. Giordano had nearly cried when he told her he was buying a house. Cameron had accompanied him in breaking the news to her, assuring that Mrs. Giordano assumed that he was moving to be with his girlfriend, rather than ever reverting to her suspicion that he had been the doctor they were talking about on the news. He had been bold enough to ask Cameron to play that part and she had agreed with no hesitation.

That morning, House and Chase had arrived together to find Cameron and Foreman studying the file. Cameron jumped up and greeted him with a hug and Foreman gave him a firm handshake, but there was little time to dwell on the fact that he was back after so many weeks away. They fell right into the old differential diagnosis patterns.

"Uric acid is high," he announced. He flipped to another page, rechecking something he had mentally noted a moment before, "And alkaline phosphatase is elevated." He considered the other symptoms. "Can she hear?"

Cameron exchanged glances with Foreman. Uric acid to hearing loss was quite a leap. "It's her eye that's…"

House cut her off, "Really close to her ear. You're thinking Juvenile Paget's."

Chase nodded, "Yeah."

"Excellent," House said, writing the additional symptoms on the whiteboard. "Foreman, check for hearing loss. Cameron, run a genetic test."

"I can--" Chase started to protest that he was capable of being in the same room with a patient.

"I know you can," House answered. "And when he finds out you nailed this diagnosis in five minutes, that quack Johnson will be release you to work on patients too."

Cameron patted Chase's back as she went to run her test.

"Good call," Foreman said, following Cameron.

"I could be wrong," Chase reminded them.

"It fits," House said. "I'll let you get away with it this time, but stop showing me up," he warned with an approving nod. "There's only room for one evil genius around here."

"But, I'm not evil," Chase grinned.

"Let's go bother Wilson."

_March 2_

"It's so empty!" Chase exclaimed, collapsing onto his old sofa in his new living room. "Hello!" he called, then mimicked an echo of, "Ello, ello, ello," lowering his voice each time.

Cameron laughed as she joined him. She had insisted on helping him unpack once the movers got everything set up the way he wanted it.

They had hung clothes in his closet, put linens on his bed, arranged the linen closet with towels and bedding, unpacked the items that belonged in his bathroom, and stocked the kitchen shelves and drawers only to find that his worldly goods took up a mere fraction of the space he now had in his seven-hundred-twenty-one-thousand dollar house.

"I think I need to buy some furniture."

"I get to help pick it out, right?" Cameron asked. She had helped him decide to buy the house, though it was no contest once they saw in person the house he had fallen for based on the photographs on the realtor's website. It was stunning: two stories, spacious rooms, hardwood and marble flooring, and what no woman could resist: a lot of closet space. She had been of no help to him in resisting the home after they took a tour. It even had a decent sized yard which was a rarity in most parts of New Jersey.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Chase answered. "You can help pay for it too," he joked, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes.

"I don't think so, mister!" Her face lit up with excitement, "Oh, I can't wait to spend your money! You know what, we should get a new set for the master bedroom and you can put the old one in a guest room," she suggested. "And you've got to get an actual dining table instead of that thing from your apartment. It's not even good enough for a breakfast nook. In fact, you ought to put this old couch in a guest room or something and we can get a nice sectional. And you need a TV for this room. You can upgrade to a hi def wide screen, which means we need to buy an entertainment center. I'm glad there wasn't one built into the walls. This way you can change the layout of the room."

Chase's eyes widened as much as they could as he mentally figured an estimate of just how much Cameron intended on spending.

She only stopped rattling off suggestions when their attention was caught as Kacey came running through the living room chasing a ball that he was batting across the floor. He lost his footing on he slick floor and spun around about five times, all four legs flat on the hardwood. They both laughed until they had tears in their eyes and kept laughing long after the cat had chased the ball into another room.

"What about those boxes?" Cameron asked, catching her breath. She pointed to the collection of parcels that had been shipped from Australia and stored in his closet for nearly four years. The movers had left them near the staircase because Chase had not been sure where he wanted them to go.

"Oh, that's just… stuff," he shrugged.

"Well, obviously, it's stuff," she snickered. "And you've got plenty of space to put it in!" She grabbed the box cutter off the coffee table. "Come on." She approached the group of boxes wondering if he would tell her to stop.

"Be careful," he warned, reaching her side as she leaned over to open the first package.

With a flick of her wrist, the tape was sliced through and she dropped the box cutter on the floor and lifted the cardboard flaps. Inside, she saw several items thoroughly wrapped in bubbled plastic. She reached for the first one and began to uncover it, finding that it was a bowl. She studied the opal accents and intricate patterns that had been hand painted. It was a piece of art. "VWC?" she read the artist's initials.

"My mother," Chase told her, taking the bowl from her. It was just as breathtaking as he remembered it. "This was her hobby."

"Wow!" Cameron gushed, uncovering a plate that was painted with the same swirling purples, greens, and blues as the bowl. "She was really good."

"Yeah," Chase agreed. "She was." He wondered how her life might have been different if she had thrown herself into her pottery instead of booze. He took the plate and set it on the dark hardwood floor next to the bowl while Cameron unveiled another piece--a cat that was about ten inches tall. It too was painted white with swirls, but these were red and green. "Holly," he smiled.

"Holly?" Cameron repeated. She noticed some photo albums deeper in the box when she removed the cat and she hoped to get a chance to look through them.

"That's it's name. Holly, the Christmas cat," Chase smiled as he remembered his mum showing him the cat which had been proudly displayed on the mantel in the den during the holidays. "Holly's an American cat, so I suppose she's finally home," he laughed. "Mum used to tell me stories about her getting into trouble, playing in the snow, unwrapping presents that didn't belong to her, and getting tangled in Christmas lights. Mum had a soft spot for the image of an American Christmas," he explained. "She loved snow." He took the cat and placed it in the center of the mantel over his gas log fireplace. "I think she'll be fine there all year long, don't you?" he asked.

"I think so," Cameron agreed, hoping that one day he would tell her about Holly's adventures. She hated to let her imagination go free because she could easily picture a colorful Christmas tree in front of the bay window and herself curled up in Chase's arms while the fireplace burned brightly. But she knew he was no where near being ready for that. She placed the bowl and plate on an empty shelf in one of the bookcases that framed the fireplace. "Was House right about your mother?" she asked softly. It was hard to imagine someone who could create something so beautiful having such a dark side.

Chase nodded, suddenly interested in adjusting Holly's position. He ruefully thought about some of the other animal pieces his mother had made and then smashed in a drunken fit by throwing them at her husband. The cat was the only one that had survived since it had been packed away with Christmas decorations. It was a shame that she had destroyed hours of her own work in mere seconds of rage. He remembered her crying and shouting, _Look what you made me do!_ He shook the memory away, not wanting the sorrow of his childhood home to be a presence in his new home. "It wasn't all bad."

Cameron could tell he was not quite comfortable talking with her about his mother, so she let the subject go. "I think I have an extra display stand you could use to stand the plate up so it could be seen better," she said. She had several decorative plates in her own apartment.

"That's a good idea," Chase said. "I probably wouldn't have thought of it," he admitted.

"That's because you're a guy," she laughed.

He just smiled, nodding in agreement. "At least I'm not going to put a mounted bass or deer head above the fireplace," he offered.

She shuddered at the thought, "That's kind of creepy."

They were surprised by a knock at the door. "Who would visit me?" he wondered aloud.

He checked the peephole and saw Foreman flanked by House and Wilson. He opened the door to let them inside. "Come in," he said, opening the door for them.

"We got you a present," Foreman announced.

Wilson was carrying a box and the box seemed to be trying to get away from him, jerking slightly in his hands. "Take it," he said, handing the box over to Chase.

The flaps of the lid were pushed into each side of the box. Chase looked down and saw a very fuzzy black and white puppy. "Oh, hello there!" he said, his eyes widening. He reached into the box and picked up the squirming bundle, then dropped the box on the floor. He lifted the puppy even with his face and studied it. The underside of his neck and his stomach were white. There was a white blaze on the top of his neck and a white streak on his forehead. He had white tips on all four feet and a clipped tail. The puppy immediately started licking Chase's face and he could not help but laugh.

"It's adorable!" Cameron squealed, reaching over to pat the puppy who was nipping at Chase's nose.

"I love him! Thank you!" Chase exclaimed. "What do you think, boy?" he asked the dog. "Is your name Jake?" He nodded, "Yeah, you're a Jake all right." He had picked the name not too long after he had decided he wanted a dog. It had been the name of one of his grandmother's many strays.

"You said you wanted to get a dog," Foreman said. "I hope you don't mind that we picked one out for you."

Chase had gotten on the floor with his puppy. The little dog was in his lap with its front paws resting on his chest while he tried to get back to his new master's face.

"I think he likes you," Wilson laughed.

"Of course he does," House said. "He has to."

"What kind is it?" Cameron asked, also getting on the floor to pet the dog.

"Australian shepherd," House answered. "What else?"

Chase rolled his eyes, "Naturally."

"Nice house," Foreman said, looking around.

"Thanks," Chase said, still enamored with the puppy. "I'll show you around." He noticed Kacey approaching, "Uh-oh."

Kacey made his way to House, ensured that his shins were covered in orange and white hair, then stopped, fluffed his tail and hissed at the intruder. Jake must have taken it as an invitation to play because he leapt from Chase's lap and tackled the cat, licking its face.

Chase cringed, not sure what to expect. His grandmother had both cats dogs that seemed to get along, but Kacey had been the sole pet during his lifetime. He heard a thud as Kacey flipped Jake onto his back. The puppy just continued to lick the cat, its legs flailing in the air as it tried to regain footing.

Kacey took off running for the sofa and Jake followed, attempting to climb onto the sofa with the cat.

"Puppy, come back here!" Chase said. He jumped up and got the dog. "No dogs on the furniture!"

"That'll never last," House whispered to Wilson.

"Nope," Wilson agreed.

Cameron also got to her feet and turned to Foreman, "Looks like we need to go to Petsmart."

_March 7_

"I told you, I'm not going to sue," Chase sighed as he sat down, feeling weary at the idea of dealing with these people. He had been called to Cuddy's office for what felt like an ambush by the legal staff. His nerves were shot just by walking in and finding the familiar cast of Cuddy, the advocate Helen Harper, the hospital's lawyer, and the lawyer's assistant. He still felt shame, knowing that all of these people were well aware of what had been going on in his life.

"Dr. Chase, the hospital feels it's in everyone's best interest if you accept a settlement," Cuddy started. "In addition to all medical expenses accrued from the attack and your follow-up care, the hospital would like to offer you a fair sum for physical and emotional damage."

Chase inhaled, his blood starting to boil. "Fair sum? Do you think there is such a thing, Dr. Cuddy? The security around here was abysmal. Preemptive measures to ensure employee and patient safety were practically nonexistent. You're telling me that you can put a price tag on the physical and emotional damage? What's the going rate for rape and attempted murder these days? How much is my dignity worth? How much is my voice worth? What about my professional reputation? What about breach of confidentiality? I've read my file. I saw your notes of Dr. Foreman's valued opinion on my mental health, given prior to the day he blurted out that I was raped to everyone who would listen. Do you think I'm some two-bit whore who will forget what happened if there are enough zeroes on the end of that check?"

"No, no! That's not what we're implying at all!" Cuddy sputtered, her face turning red. "We just want to make this time easier for you."

Chase scowled at the idea that money was the answer.

"If you would just listen to our offer, I think you'll find it quite reasonable," Malcom Beasley, the hospital's chief lawyer said.

"What's reasonable about calling me in here with no legal counsel of my own to try to badger me into accepting a deal? I have an assigned advocate employed by the hospital and you think she's really looking out for _my_ best interest? I've seen her once when I was still hospitalized and she was with the rest of you. She's not advocating for _me_! What are my options, Mr. Beasley? Take the deal or lose my job? Is that the point of this ambush?"

"No!" Cuddy exclaimed. "You're not going to lose your job. We didn't mean to make you feel pressured."

"Dr. Chase, please, be reasonable. Think of what this settlement could do for your financial security. We're aware that you recently bought a house."

Chase was disgusted. "Yeah, I bought a house. With my money. Do you understand that? _My_ money!" He stood, angry and insulted. "You know what, you can all go to hell. We will take this to court. I'm still a Chase and I can still hire lawyers that will wipe the floor with you. You want a lawsuit? You've got it!" Chase yelled. He hastily exited Cuddy's office, slamming the door behind him.

He was not even sure how he got himself back to the diagnostics office. He slammed that door as well as he entered, marched to the conference table, sat down, crossed his arms, and exhaled.

"What happened?" Cameron asked, immediately concerned.

"They want to buy my silence. They think that throwing money at me will make it okay that I was raped and nearly killed because their security sucks." He swallowed, mentally bringing himself out of the rage. There was no need to take it out on Cameron, Foreman, or House.

"How much did they offer you?" House asked.

Chase looked up and scathingly answered, "I don't know. I never let them finish."

"What did you do?" Foreman asked. He had been getting a cup of coffee when Chase came into the room, and he brought an extra cup to the table to offer it to his irate coworker.

"Told 'em to sod off," Chase answered bitterly. "Not in so many words."

"What did you really tell them?" House asked, joining his fellows at the table.

Chase relaxed his arms and looked up, frustrated. "I told them if they wanted a lawsuit, I'd give them one." He was embarrassed that he had actually been reduced to using his surname as a threat.

"You don't want to do that," House told him, calmly. "You know you don't."

"No, I don't," he answered, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table.

Cameron gently rubbed his back for a moment.

"You should take the settlement," House encouraged.

"That'll make me a whore," he answered, surprising himself with his openness around Foreman.

"No, it won't!" Cameron argued. "This hospital is responsible for their lack of security! If the security we have in place now had been in place two months ago, this never would have happened! Everyone knows that."

"Look, you can put yourself through hell by going to court, or you can take what they're offering you," House said. "They won't be satisfied until they have some kind of assurance that you won't bring a suit against them later. If you go to court, they're going to treat you like you're on trial and make you look like you were at fault. They'll dig up everything they can to discredit you. Take their money. It's the least they can do."

"Exactly," Chase answered. Money meant nothing when weighed against everything he had suffered since that fateful day in January. "Money doesn't mean a damn thing. It's not going to give me back my dignity. It's not going to make me sleep at night."

"Your dignity comes from the fact that you're the kind of person who would sacrifice himself to save someone else's life," Foreman interrupted. "Those bastards couldn't change the kind of person you are."

Chase was astounded by Foreman's words. Was this the same man who used to call him a kiss ass?

He continued, "Money may not make you sleep at night, but you have to look at the big picture. When this hospital has to pay out a large sum to you because of their negligence, they will make changes and maintain them because they won't want to pay someone else and even bigger settlement. You make them pay and they'll see to it that everyone in this hospital--including you--will have every safety measure they can put in place. The money isn't going to hurt you. You don't even have to touch it. You can put it away for your children or grandchildren."

Chase looked down, considering what Foreman was saying. It meant something to him that Foreman was optimistic enough to foresee children and grandchildren in his future.

"I took the settlement," Foreman admitted.

Chase's head snapped up again. "What?"

"I would have had an air tight case against them too. They offered me a deal. I took it and I'm not ashamed of taking it. My mother has a lot of medical bills and this will help me take care of her."

"I took a settlement after I was shot too," House answered. "Only, I bet it was a fraction of what they're offering you," he laughed. "Because they sure didn't make any changes."

"Isn't it all just hush money?"

"No. It's the only way to hold the institution accountable. They can't give you intangibles like dignity, Chase. They can only fork over some dough. Take it and save yourself the heartache of a lawsuit."

Chase nodded, "You're both right."

"So, how big of a hissy fit did you have?" House asked.

Try as he might, Chase could not help smiling, "Big."

"Fantastic. They'll probably double their offer," House laughed. "Lunch is on you."

_March 8_

"Dr. Chase, thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Cuddy said politely. She watched as he sat down in front of her desk, mentally rehearsing what she would say to him one more time.

Chase nodded. He hoped this would go well.

"I want to apologize for yesterday. We were wrong to call on you with no warning because it did not give you time to prepare. Given the additional stress placed upon you yesterday, Mr. Beasley and his associates have worked out another offer that they would like to give you the opportunity consider." She pulled a legal document and an envelope from her top desk drawer and slid them across the table to Chase. "We would like to keep this from going to court if you're willing to work with us."

Chase frowned. He had been willing to not go to court at all. He took the paper and started reading. He carefully read every word of the document. When he got to the end of it, he looked up at Cuddy. "If I sign this will you stop hounding me?"

Cuddy nodded, "Again, we don't want you to feel pressured. It's best for all of us to reach an agreement."

"You're not going to fire me?"

Cuddy softened, "No, we're not going to fire you if you take the settlement. We're not going to fire you if you _don't_ take the settlement. I apologize that you were ever under the impression that you had to take this in order to keep your job. Even if you go through with a lawsuit, we can not terminate your contract. That would be considered retaliation. That's not to say your job is protected no matter what you do, but any conditions for termination would have to be extreme and justifiable."

Chase nodded. "I only made that threat yesterday because you all ambushed me and insulted me. I didn't want to sue at all."

"That's what you've always said. I believe you. Mr. Beasley, on the other hand…"

Chase looked down, contemplating the words he had just read and what Foreman and House had said to him about taking a settlement. "If I take this, it's not going to be because money will make it better."

"I know," she blinked quickly, trying to resist showing emotion. She had seen more settlements than she cared to remember. Most of them were frivolous, but not this one. "Chase, what do you need?" she asked.

"Not money," Chase shrugged. "But House and Foreman helped me understand why I need to sign this."

She reached across the desk to pat his hand which was resting on top of the agreement. "Is there anything you can think of, anything at all?"

"I need to feel safe again," he answered.

"It'll happen," Cuddy promised, hoping she was telling the truth. "Give it time."

Chase took a calming breath and reached for a pen. He signed his name on the agreement and shoved the paperwork to Cuddy.

She smiled, pleased with his decision, and inched the envelope with the check inside closer toward him. "Don't forget that"

Chase stood. "In spite of everything, I still love this hospital," he told her.

She came around the desk to shake his hand, "We're lucky to have you," she said, keeping her grip firm. Images of Chase after the attack flitted through her mind--examining him, checking on him every morning, pushing his hair out of his eyes while he was sedated. Instinctively, she brought her free hand to his forehead to tame his stray bangs. She lowered her hand and patted his back, bringing him close for a quick hug. "In case you didn't know it, I'm really glad you're okay. You're one of the brightest young men we've ever had good fortune of employing. I hope you'll be part of the Princeton Plainsboro family for a long time."

Chase pulled away from her, surprised by her show of affection. "I will be."

"And, Chase," she paused, almost deciding not to say one last thing. "Happy Birthday." His stunned expression told her that he was surprised that she knew what the day was. She was confident that he was not be the type of person to make a big deal out of his birthday. "I've spent a lot of time with your file," she explained to him why she knew the significance of the date.

He nodded. It had not even occurred to him that it was his birthday when he had gotten up that morning and he certainly had no plans to inform anyone else. "Thanks," he forced himself to smile, his mind wandering to the idea that he had come close to never seeing this milestone.

When he got home that evening, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and opened it. He shook his head in disbelief, "That's a lot of zeroes," he whispered, contemplating another lonely night where he checked his windows and doors half a dozen times and welcomed that the post-exposure medication would make him sleep though he eventually would wake up gasping for air. He realized that he would be taking his last dose tonight. It had been exactly eight weeks since the attack. "Happy birthday to me," he sighed, tossing the check onto his kitchen counter.

Jake just looked up and whined, ready to go for a walk in the back yard. The money was of no comfort to him either.


	40. Chapter 40

_AN: In honor of Chase's birthday, which is _today _in my world, I'm giving you a happy chapter (angst shall follow). I can't seem to end this story just yet. I hope you're not getting tired of it. _

"Open it," House demanded.

As soon as Chase had opened the door, House shoved a recycled gift bag into his hands. It was bright red with no card or decorative tissue. It could have been left from Valentine's Day or Christmas… of 1998. He stepped aside so that House and Wilson, who was carrying five pizza boxes, could come inside.

"You're giving me Wilson's DVDs?" Chase asked, pulling three seasons of _Kung Fu _from the bag.

"We never finished watching," House explained. "Your pad is nicer than mine and Cameron told me you got a wide screen hi def."

"Thanks," Chase replied cheerfully. He might not allow himself to show it, but he was thrilled that the other two doctors had shown up unexpectedly. He had told them that they were welcome to come over any time they wanted, but had doubted in his heart that they would ever take him up on the offer. He had already showered and changed for bed, resigned that he would be spending another birthday alone. "Come on to the kitchen," he said, taking the pizza from Wilson and leading them through the house.

Jake nipped at Wilson's pants leg, tugging on it and growling with every step.

"Jake, stop it!" Chase scolded.

"That dog hates me," Wilson said, looking down at his pants leg to make sure it had not been ripped. It was just a little wet. He was relieved that Jake was following at Chase's feet for the time being. He was also glad to see the puppy had formed such an attachment to Chase already. The breeder had assured them that Australian shepherds were highly intelligent, loyal dogs who would fight to the death for their charge, be it a herd of cows or their master. While he doubted Jake would ever be put to that test, it was comforting to know that Chase had that defense should those men ever seek out his new home. No one ever discussed it, but they all had accepted that the trail was cold and the crime would go unpunished.

Chase wondered why Wilson had bought so many pizzas, but suspected that House had probably asked for three varieties and that Wilson was still thoughtful about his tendency to avoid meat, so there would be one with cheese, onions, and a thin crust which he preferred to the deep dish that House and Wilson liked. He could smell pepperoni and bell peppers, so he guessed there was a supreme variety in the mix as well.

He set the pizzas down on the bar, then opened the refrigerator to retrieve a six-pack of the brand of beer that the other men favored. He had bought it just in case they did stop by at some point. He set the cans next to the pizza and said, "Help yourself. I'm going to get dressed."

"Because we've never seen you in your pajamas?" House asked.

Chase shook his head. There was no way he was going to entertain guests while dressed for bed, even if it was just House and Wilson. He was a little embarrassed that they had caught him ready for bed this early in the evening on his birthday of all nights. He had made no plans to celebrate, so there was no reason for him not to get comfortable and lounge around for a while. He certainly did not have any desire to go out and be around strangers and, as far as he knew, no one in his department even knew when his birthday was, much less would make an attempt to celebrate it. "I'll be right back," he promised.

Sure enough, he bounded back into the kitchen about five minutes later with Jake by his side.

"He doesn't try to rip _your_ pants off," Wilson pointed out.

"That's because I'll pop him on the nose if I have to," Chase explained. He was surprised that House and Wilson had not dug into the food or even opened the beers yet. "If you don't want beer, I have sodas and bottled water too," he offered.

Chase reached for one of the pizza boxes, but paused when Wilson said, "We could wait a few minutes."

"Okay," he shrugged. He opened one of the pantry doors and retrieved an unopened bag of Chips Ahoy. "Want cookies for dessert?"

House took the bag from him and opened them. "Why wait?"

"House!" Wilson yelped. He reminded Chase of the television image of a soccer mom. An admonition that House was going to spoil his dinner seemed understood.

Chase was surprised when his doorbell rang again. "Be right back," he said, leaving House and Wilson in the kitchen.

This time he found Cameron, Foreman, and Cuddy at his doorstep. He could not help but smile as he let the group inside. Cameron was holding another gift bag, only this one was shiny, new, covered with colorful balloons and stuffed with bright yellow paper.

She hugged him as she came inside, "Happy Birthday."

"How did you know?" he asked.

She laughed and said, "A little bird told me." The truth was that she had read his birthday on the identification bracelet he had worn when he had been hospitalized. She had waited all day long to see if he would mention it. Since he did not, she informed House and Foreman that they had to do something, so this birthday ambush had been planned. She handed him the gift bag. "It's from the three of us," she said.

Chase removed the yellow tissue and pulled out a pewter set of three connected four-by-six inch spinning picture frames. "This is great," he said enthusiastically, making the frame in the middle spin around in slow circles. He was sure he had seen one like it in the hospital gift shop. "Thanks."

Cameron smiled, hoping that he would use the frames to display some happy memories. It saddened her that the only photo of his family in his apartment had been taken more than twenty years ago. Since there had been photo albums in his parcels shipped from Australia, she knew he had more photographs, even though she had not pushed her luck by trying to see them.

"Where can I put this?" Foreman asked, nodding toward the cake he was carrying. Chase could see it through the plastic container. It was white with blue trim, candy confetti, and simply said _Happy Birthday._ A single candle was already stuck in the middle.

"This way," House directed. He and Wilson had trailed behind Chase when he came to answer the door.

"Oh, he-hello," Cuddy stuttered, startled when Jake put his paws up to get her attention. She appeared very disconcerted by the puppy.

"Hey there, Jake," Cameron said, getting the dog's attention. "Are you going to make a new friend and forget about me?" she asked playfully. Jake immediately turned from Cuddy to Cameron, quickly favoring the person who wanted to play with him. Cameron picked up the dog and rubbed his head, "I swear you've grown in the last week," she gushed. "Where's Kacey?" she asked Chase.

"Probably sleeping," he answered. "He was conked out on my bed a few minutes ago."

"Your house is beautiful," Cuddy said, taking a moment to admire his kitchen and the adjoining dining room.

"Thanks," he replied, a little bit of resentment bubbled in his stomach when he thought of the lawyer bringing his new home into the conversation about a settlement.

"It's a nice neighborhood," she added.

"Yeah, it is," Foreman agreed. "I may have to look into some property here one day."

"Really?" Chase asked, surprised, though he did not mind the idea of Foreman being his neighbor. He imagined that Foreman was the one of them most likely to move on from Princeton Plainsboro. Of course, this area was within easy commuting distance for a number of hospitals.

"Sure. It's going to be a great subdivision when it's finished."

"I love the table and china cabinet," Cuddy commented, running her hand across the cherry table top that contrasted with the rubbed black base.

"Thanks," Chase responded again. "Cameron's got good taste," he laughed. "She's got _expensive_ taste too," he teased, turning to her with a smile.

"Be grateful. If it wasn't for me, your house would be as coordinated as your wardrobe," she warned.

"What's wrong with my wardrobe?" Chase asked, genuinely shocked by her comparison. He was taken aback when everyone in the room looked at him as if he should already know the answer. "What?" He looked down at what he was wearing at the moment, a blue shirt with faded blue jeans. There was nothing wrong with it.

Cameron rolled her eyes, "We'll go clothes shopping too," she said, patting his arm.

"Can we eat?" House asked, bored with the inane chit-chat. Small take was painful.

"Sure," Wilson answered, opening all the pizza boxes. He was a bit unsettled by the way Cameron was flirting with Chase. House had been right. The girl was attracted to damaged men.

"I'll get some plates," Chase said. He got them from a cabinet above his sink. Even though he had bought a china cabinet to match his table, he had not put anything in it yet. He had not even seen the point of buying it, but Cameron had convinced him to do so because the style might be discontinued when he eventually would want it. _You know, if you ever get married_, she had reasoned. _Everyone registers for china_. It had made him wonder if she had a full set of china that she never used stuffed in a box somewhere.

"I'll get silverware," Cameron volunteered, opening the drawer she had arranged when she helped him move into the house.

"For pizza?" House asked sarcastically.

"For cake," Foreman reminded him. He took the plates from Chase. "I'll set the table. You get us something to drink."

Chase nodded and brought the soda and some bottles of water out of his refrigerator. He could not mix beer with his medication and doubted that either of the women would want it either.

"Why don't we leave the pizza on the bar instead of putting those greasy boxes on that beautiful table?" Cuddy suggested.

Foreman shrugged, "Okay," and set the plates down on the counter. He noted the bag of cookies with quiet surprise. There had been nothing like that in Chase's old kitchen. Living with House must have influenced Chase's buying habits, he mused.

"This is the first surprise party I've been to where everyone just showed up at the guest of honor's house," Cameron said when they had all taken their seats at the table. "I've always seen the guest lured elsewhere." She was glad she had talked Chase into getting the table designed for six. It was perfect for this little party.

Shopping with him had been fun for her. He was well aware that he knew nothing about decorating and had welcomed her advice. He had been so agreeable at first that she feared he was giving into whatever she wanted because he did not want to stand up for his own taste. So she picked out some truly hideous pieces as tests only to find that he would tell her in a heartbeat if he thought something was too trendy or just plain ugly. As it turned out, they had similar preferences.

"I've never had a surprise party before," Chase told them. "This is so unexpected!" He realized that he not really celebrated his birthday since he had been about ten years old.

"Hence the element of surprise," Wilson chuckled.

"Wait until the stripper gets here," House said, munching on his pizza.

"You didn't!" Cuddy gasped.

"Of course not," House admitted. "Couldn't get my hands on Wilson's credit card."

Even though Chase knew House had been joking, he was relieved. He would have been mortified if a stripper showed up at his house.

"So, what was your best birthday ever?" Cameron asked, intending to get an answer from everyone at the table. "Chase, you first."

House and Foreman both rolled their eyes at Cameron's game.

"Uh," Chase thought about it. "I was seven and spent the whole day with my grandmother."

"What did you do?"

"We made a cake and read stories to each other and played with toy dinosaurs," he recalled.

"Just you and your grandmother?" Foreman asked.

"Yep," Chase answered, divulging no further details. Sure, he had had a few birthday parties when he was little, but his favorite day had been spent with just his grandmother. "What about you?" he turned the question on Foreman.

"The year I got a bike," he answered. "My dad taught me how to ride it and I spent the entire day going up and down the street. We had cake and ice cream after supper." He shook his head, "My little brother cried all day long because he wanted a bike too, so I had to let him have a turn."

"Brothers are like that," Wilson agreed. "One year, I got a BB gun and my older brother took it. He wound up shooting a bird, so my mom got mad and took the gun away from us. It was _my_ gun and _he_ got it confiscated. It was a great birthday before that though. We spent half the day setting up bottles and trying to shoot them down."

"My sister tried to ruin all my birthdays," Cameron revealed. "So my favorite birthday is any one where she wasn't born or was too young to be a complete nuisance."

"That's harsh," Chase commented, laughing.

"You haven't met my sister," Cameron argued. "I had a birthday party when I was five. I got a Barbie Dream House and all my little friends and I pretended we were Barbie and lived like princesses. That was my last pre-Meggie birthday."

"You were _all_ Barbie?" House asked.

"Well, nobody wanted to be Barbie's _friend_," Cuddy supplied. "They didn't have all the cool stuff she did."

"Or Ken," Cameron added with a giggle.

"Castrated Ken. Every girl's dream," House scoffed.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Well, my favorite birthday was when I was sixteen. My parents let me have my first party with both girls _and_ boys. Raymond Hayes kissed me on my back porch," she recalled with a sigh.

"Dreamy," House replied.

"Well, what about you, House?" Cameron prodded. "Everyone else has answered."

House did not appear eager to answer, but he relented. "I was twelve. My father was stationed in Japan, so we were on the military base. I had a buddy named, ironically, Buddy. There wasn't much room for extra stuff on bases, but my mother was able to get me a basketball. There was a goal on the base, so Buddy and I played one-on-one all afternoon and he stayed for supper."

"That sounds perfectly normal," Wilson commented. "I half expected some story about getting a chemistry set and blowing up your mom's kitchen."

"That was my fourteenth birthday." House replied.

"Time for cake," Cameron announced, getting up from the table. She returned with the cake, the candle already burning. She set the cake in front of Chase and told him, "Make a wish."

He thought about it, nodded, then closed his eyes and blew out the flame.

"What'd you wish for?" Cameron asked.

"Can't tell you," Chase replied. "But I'll let you know if it ever comes true."

The way his eyes caught hers made her heart skip a beat. She blushed, "Oops, I forgot to get a knife. And saucers. Be right back."

Wilson caught the silent exchange between the two young doctors and looked to House to see if he had also noticed. It was impossible to tell.

Before Cameron returned, Cuddy's pager sounded. She checked the number and sighed heavily. "It's the hospital," she told them, though they all could have guessed as much. "I better go call in." She left the table.

Cameron came back and started slicing the cake. "You get the first piece," she told Chase, offering him a corner.

"I'd rather have one with less icing," he told her honestly.

"I'll take that one then," House said, reaching across the table to grab the saucer.

"Wait," Cuddy told Cameron as she continued slicing the cake. "I have to get back to the hospital. I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess that means you and Foreman have to leave too." The three had ridden together in Foreman's car.

"Oh," Cameron said, her expression falling.

"I can take you home later," Chase offered. He had started driving when he went back to work since he had built up some tolerance to the ARV's. "Or to pick up your car," he amended.

"You don't mind?" she asked.

"Of course not."

"Oh, good," Cuddy said. "I hate to make either of you leave on my account."

"It's all right," Foreman shrugged. "Just hate I'm going to miss the cake."

"Take some with you," Chase said as he got up to walk his guests to the door.

"Nah, that's okay," Foreman shook his head.

"I can bring the rest to work tomorrow," Chase suggested.

"Yeah, that's good," Foreman agreed, following Cuddy.

They stopped by the door. "Thanks for coming over. And thanks again for the gift and the cake," Chase told them.

"Happy birthday," Cuddy told him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Yeah, happy birthday, man," Foreman slapped him on the back and then offered his hand.

Chase shook Foreman's hand. "I enjoyed it," he told them. "We'll have to this again sometime."

Foreman nodded, then he and Cuddy left for the hospital.

By the time Chase got back to the dining room, House and Wilson had finished their cake and Wilson had cleared everything from the table except for Chase and Cameron's cake and drinks. He transferred all the leftover pizza into a single box and stuck it in the refrigerator.

"It's getting late," Wilson said. "House and I should go." The two of them made their way to the door.

"Oh," Chase said, surprised that they were ready to leave as well. "You didn't want to stick around and watch some DVD's?" he asked.

"Nah, we've all got to work tomorrow," House answered. "Keep 'em safe."

"Okay," Chase answered, a little disappointed. "Come back soon," he told them. "I want to find out what happens next."

"Me too," House replied. "It ought to be interesting."

They did not bother shaking hands before leaving. There was something much less formal about the relationship that had forged between the three men. They did not need the token display.

"Happy birthday," Wilson said as his goodbye.

"Yeah," House said, agreeing with Wilson's sentiment. "Don't forget the cake tomorrow."

"I won't," Chase smiled, shaking his head.

"Bring the pizza too."

"Got it," Chase nodded, closing the door behind them.

"You think it's safe leaving him with her?" Wilson asked as he and House made their way to his car.

"I'll bet you fifty bucks she shows up tomorrow in scrubs that are too big for her," House wagered.

"Like I'd take that bet," Wilson snorted. "No, thank you."


	41. Chapter 41

AN: _Excuse the underlining. For some reason the formatting screws up any time there's italics at the beginning of a paragraph. _

When he came back into the kitchen, Cameron could tell that Chase was disappointed that House and Wilson left so abruptly. "Looks like it's just you and me," she said. She patted the table where he had a piece of birthday cake waiting for him.

"Guess so," he said, sliding into his chair.

"Were we just set up?" she asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Chase swallowed the bite of cake he had just taken and his eyes got wider. "Huh?"

"You don't think it's a little odd that everyone left at once?" she prodded.

He shifted, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, and studied his cake. He had the part with the "y." He was not sure exactly what answer he should give, so he shrugged and took another bite of his cake. "This is good," he told her. He tried to hide that he was having a hard time swallowing the cake.

Were they being set up? He had not wanted her to leave with Cuddy and Foreman, but he had also expected House and Wilson to hang around and watch DVDs. He wondered if duo's abrupt departure had been something they saw as a favor. Then he worried that they might have certain expectations about why they were doing him such a favor.

He finished his cake and took the saucer to the sink to rinse it. He almost jumped when Cameron joined him to rinse her dish as well. He thought about loading the dishwasher as he dried his hands on a dishtowel. It would give him something to keep him busy for a few minutes. "So, do you want me to take you home or back to the hospital to get your car?" he asked.

"No rush," Cameron smiled as she stepped closer, reached upward and stroked his cheek. "You have blue icing on your lip," she giggled, rubbing her finger over his mouth.

"Sorry," Chase said, swallowing. He reached for the towel, but she stopped him.

"I'll get it," she teased.

He froze when she covered his mouth with her own and licked the sugary icing from his lip. A million thoughts seemed to crash in on him at once. Had he misled her by asking her to stay? Did House and Wilson leave under the impression that he wanted to be alone with Cameron? He wanted to kiss her, but what if he zoned out like he had that day in his apartment? And why was she kissing him now when the last time had gone so badly?

It's just a kiss. You can handle it, he encouraged himself, trying to relax. He closed his eyes, but saw Joe's face, so he opened them quickly. _Don't do that_, he told himself. He focused on how gently she was brushing his lips. He knew he had to kiss her back or that he would wind up hurting her feelings and then she would cry and he would probably cry and he had had enough of that to last for quite a while. He realized his arms were still at his sides, so he embraced her. As soon as he relaxed enough to part his lips, he felt her tongue start to slip into his mouth. And there was Joe again with his heavy breath and demanding mouth. The images flooded his mind and he reflexively jerked away from her, putting a safe distance between them, but leaving her with a shell-shocked expression.

"Damn it!" he growled. "I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry!" he turned away from her, too embarrassed to look at her mortified face. He saw his keys on the counter. "Here," he said, shoving them toward her. "Just take the Explorer and go. Please. I'm sorry!" He did not give her time to respond before he made his hasty exit from the kitchen, retreating to the privacy of his own bedroom.

Kacey was still fast asleep on the foot of his bed. He sat down next to his cat and sighed. Jake followed closely and settled into his own little bed which was in the corner of the room next to the dresser that also served as an entertainment center. "Coward," he said aloud, disgusted with himself not only for being unable to keep his reactions under control, but also for fleeing the scene like a child. He knew he should go downstairs and apologize, but could not bring himself to do it.

Kacey lazily opened one eye as if to say, "You again?" and then drifted back to sleep.

Chase sat there, obsessing about what had just happened. He listened intently for the sound of his Explorer starting, but did not hear it. Maybe he would not be able to hear it from the upstairs bedroom, he reasoned. He dreaded facing Cameron in the morning. He would not blame her if she never spoke to him again. And then there would be House, either assuming they had slept together again or sensing the tension between his two fellows and figuring out that things had not gone well. Maybe he would just call in sick and avoid them all.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. He could see himself and Cameron in his kitchen. It was _just_ a kiss. How was he ever going to move to a more intimate relationship when he was unpredictably susceptible to physical triggers of his memories? He scoffed as he entertained the notion of getting Cameron to drench herself in spearmint oil so he could imagine leaves when they kissed instead of haunting images of the man who had attacked him.

He did not really notice as his head bowed. He exhaled, biting his lip. "Why can't I get better?" he asked softly. "How long does it take?" At first, he did not realize he was praying, but he let his thoughts cry out in desperation to the God that he wanted to trust, the One that had been waiting on the other side of that brilliant light.

Don't let me ruin this, he begged silently. _Please don't let me be alone the rest of my life. Please let me move on_, he beseeched in spirit. He crossed himself as he murmured the end of his prayer, but somehow it did not feel like he had done enough. He could barely remember the last time he had gone to confession. When it came to this, he did not have a clue what was his sin and what was someone else's, but he had in his mind that God would not hear him so long as he was marred by these sins.

Maybe that's part of the problem, he thought. House and other doctors had cared for his body, so his physical wounds had been tended. Johnson was helping him deal with his emotional wounds. But he had ignored his spiritual wounds. He reluctantly dared to let himself acknowledge they existed. It was hard to admit his very soul had been scarred. _It's always something else_, he sighed. It seemed this battle had no end. He was sure that he could not fight part of the war and win it all. But, he was unsure of how to even begin to put those pieces of himself back together since they had unraveled long before the attack.

"Chase?"

He looked up to see Cameron standing by his bedroom door. She had her hand raised as if she were going to knock, but had thought better of it.

"I thought you left," he said softly, turning his focus to the floor.

"I couldn't," she answered. "I couldn't leave you, not like that." She remained at his doorway.

"I was hoping you could," he muttered, once more humiliated that he had run away from a kiss.

"I--may I come in?" she asked hesitantly, mindful of the barriers he may have erected.

He nodded.

She joined him, sitting on the other side of the bed, keeping Kacey between them. "I keep making mistakes," she said.

He shrugged. "It's not you."

"It--Chase, please look at me--" she requested. When he faced her, she continued. "It is me. I can't begin to know what you're going through, but I keep doing these stupid things."

"It's okay. I'm the one who…" he sighed. He had had just about all the facing of feelings that he could handle. "Screws up," he finished. He noticed how pale she looked.

"You didn't screw up, Chase. I did. I don't mean to make it worse."

"I know. I know you feel sorry for me--"

"I don't--" she started, but he glared in disbelief. "I do feel sympathy, Chase. I feel sorrow because it happened. But I'm not under some delusion that you'll be cured if I can get you in bed with me. I really care about you." She sighed, morose. "I just wanted to show you."

"I really care about you too," Chase admitted. "That's why I can't keep… running."

"I… you…" Cameron started, clearly at a loss for words. "I didn't mean to. You," she shook her head as she slowly continued speaking. "You made this… sound."

Chase tilted his head, watching her. He had no idea what she was talking about. "When?"

"When I tried to kiss you more deeply."

He pressed his lips together tightly, eyes darting quickly from her face to anywhere else. His posture stiffened as he tried to remember what she was talking about. That was just what he needed--one more thing to embarrass him.

"It was like…" she searched for an applicable comparison. "I don't know. I heard that a rabbit is always silent, unless it's afraid it's going to die--like an innocent reaction to pure terror."

Chase closed his eyes, trying to remember. He started to tell her that he could not remember, but let the words fall to the wayside.

"I caused that," Cameron said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She could hear him in her mind and somehow she knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man who had raped him had heard a similar sound of protest. She wondered how he had been able to hear a vocalization of such fear and continue to do what he did. She wondered if it had even fueled him.

"Look, I don't even remember, so you can forget it too, okay?" That would be the easiest thing for them both. Finding out he made some weird sound when kissed was a little too much self-awareness for comfort.

"I can't, Chase."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know I was making stupid sounds."

"Chase, stop!" Cameron raised her voice, though under the circumstances that put her volume at a normal conversational level. "Don't apologize and don't say it's stupid because it's not. It was honest. It was real."

He exhaled and looked up to his ceiling. "I don't want to discuss this," he told her.

"I respect that," Cameron told him, keeping her voice steady. "But--"

"But not enough to actually _not_ discuss it?"

"Chase," Cameron wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and hold him so close that nothing could ever hurt him again, but held herself back. "We _have_ to discuss this." He did not protest, and she continued though she could tell he was distressed. "I care too much about you to cause you that kind of fear again."

"It wasn't _you_," Chase told her softly. "It was _him_."

"I did something that reminded you of him though," Cameron clarified.

Chase ran his hand through his hair, frustrated with the conversation. "It doesn't take much," he told her.

"I'm starting to see that," Cameron revealed. "I don't think I really realized how… scarred you are." She saw humiliation play across his features. "Don't be embarrassed. It's going to take time. That's why I have to take a step back and try to understand."

Chase nodded. "And this is the part, where we decide to be just friends because I've messed everything up."

"I thought about it--a lot--while I was downstairs." She took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's be honest here. I'm an aggressive partner. You know that because we've been together before."

He nodded, wishing she would just end things and stop talking.

"That's not going to work," she said.

He listened, seared by how rational she sounded. He had feared that they would all tire of his issues eventually. If Cameron was giving up on the relationship they had sort of started, how much longer would the rest of them put up with his hypersensitive reactions? At least he had moved out of House's apartment before the other man got fed up with him and threw him out. His eyes stung, but he refused to let her see him react. He had made it through most of his life with the ability to hide his true emotions so he forced himself to find that stoic façade once more. This roller coaster had to stop.

"Chase, I really like you," Cameron said, her tone becoming brighter. "I like you enough to back off and wait until you're ready for something physical."

Chase heard her words, but it took him a moment to process them because they conflicted with his expectations. He faced her, "What?" he asked, his heart feeling much lighter than it had just twenty seconds prior. "You want to… wait for me?"

She nodded, "What did you think I was--you thought I was dumping you?" she asked. "Well, I guess I can't dump you, we're not really together, but, you thought I was dumping you?" Her pitch got higher as she finished her question.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a mess. Because I freak out and can't… make you happy."

She started to take his hand in her own, but paused. "Chase, I don't have to have sex to be happy."

He noticed her hand move toward his and then stop. He bridged the distance and clasp her fingers. The cat seemed to be under the impression that they were there to rub his stomach. He turned onto his side, exposing his belly to Chase who ignored him. "I wish I could tell you how long it's going to take."

"There's no way for anyone to know that answer."

He nodded. "Just so you know, you're not obligated to wait forever."

"I know." She wanted to rub the pad of her thumb over his hand, but, again, hesitated, unable to know what kind of stimulus would jar those all too fresh memories to the surface. "We'll figure it out," she promised him. "I think the key is for you to take the lead. We'll do what you're comfortable with in the timeframe that you set."

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I wish I could be normal."

She shrugged, "What's normal, anyway?"

"For starters, a normal person doesn't flip out over a kiss." His serious answer did not fit her lighthearted presentation of the question.

She held onto his fingers. The optimism she had just felt withered under his bitter self-evaluation. "Can you tell me what happened?" she prodded gently. "What went wrong? Maybe if I know what went wrong, I can keep from doing it again."

Chase hesitated. She was asking him to reveal some of the deepest and darkest pieces of himself. Giving her the answers was the same as handing her weapons should she turn against him later. Yet, her willingness to work through his erratic reactions made him more inclined to speak openly. He knew that finding someone so understanding was a gift. "My mouth… bothers me. A lot of… memories." He tried to tell her just enough that she could put the pieces together while gripping her hand firmly, as though he were afraid he would lose her if he let go.

Cameron nodded. It made sense to her. The mouth was one of the most sensitive areas of the body. Something in the way she moved had triggered the same kind of sensory response as that man had. She shivered at the thought.

"I wish I knew what would make me freak out or when. If I could control it, I would."

"I know you would," Cameron said, looking down at their intertwined hands. "We'll figure it out."

"You don't mind waiting?" he asked, seeking reassurance of her earlier promise.

"No, I don't mind," she answered, looking him straight in the eye. "Heck, it might be nice to date a guy who isn't trying to get in my pants," she joked.

He looked down, accepting that there was still a world of fear that he had to deal with before he would consider himself healed. "Maybe the more we get to know each other, the easier it will be," he proposed.

"I think so," Cameron agreed. "We'll start small, like this." She held up their clasp hands. "And if we do make love, it will be special."

He nodded, grateful that she was willing to travel this road with him. At the same time, he berated himself for being less of a man than she needed.

"You know, Chase," she moved just a little bit closer to him, annoying the cat enough that he scampered away from them. "We may not have been physical; but, in a way, this is as intimate as I've ever been with anyone." Being close was not just about the sexual act. She had examined herself more since Chase's attack than she ever had before in her life. She had faced things she found she did not like about herself and tried to change them. She had opened herself up to him, made some mistakes, but kept persevering. No one had ever been has open with her as Chase had. Maybe that was why she felt so connected to him and wanted to work with him through the struggle.

"Me too," he said with a small laugh. He had never exposed so much of his true self to anyone else. "So…" he drawled the word out slowly. "Wanna go steady?"

Cameron's face lit up with a smile. "Go steady, huh?"

"Yeah. I was just thinking about having an old fashioned courtship, you know, if you can put up with dating a nut job."

"I could date a nut job," she said coyly. "Especially if he was cute. Maybe if he had an accent. British is nice."

"I'm Australian!" he corrected her, finding her smile contagious.

"British, Australian. Same thing."

"Oh, you are going to pay for that!" Chase threatened. "I don't know how yet," he laughed. "But you're going to pay for that."

AN:_ I have to admit I was hesitant to post this. The situation is so uncomfortable, but I really wanted to tell an authentic story and that includes the harsh reality that many of us who have been through this have an incredibly difficult time with intimacy. The pressure for perfection and normalcy can make you just want to crawl into a hole and die. It sucks and I couldn't just gloss it over with a happy, but unrealistic, ending. Oh, and this isn't the end. The story won't let ME go quite yet! LOL I also know some of you won't like this because of the pairing. What can I say? When I started this story I had no intention of going Chase/Cameron or any other "ship" for that matter. But it fits. One wonderful reader/reviewer said they could just imagine Cameron is someone else. Anyone who hates the pairing is welcome to do the same. Haha._


	42. Chapter 42

__

March 12

There had been times in his life that Chase had truly surprised himself and this was one of them. He had decided to attend to his need to at least attempt to mend his spiritual life. This meant actively taking a step to reach out for help which was a stark contrast to the help that had been thrust upon him throughout this ordeal. Chase knew this was not something he could do alone, nor was it something he could do with House or Wilson or Cameron or even Johnson.

Once he knew for certain that he was going to find someone to talk to, the hardest decision had been whether or not to seek guidance from a Catholic priest or to abandon the denomination, at least for now. He opted for trying another denomination.

Chase recalled the lyrics of a song he had heard a few years ago. It said something about being as empty as a church on Monday morning. _They weren't kidding,_ he thought. There were four cars in the massive parking lot of the Grace Baptist Church and two of them were parked so far from the entrance that he thought they may have belonged to people who just left them there for the day while carpooling with someone else.

He was anxious about meeting in person the pastor he had spoken to over the phone, but it was a different kind of anxiety than he had felt when going to see Dr. Johnson. He was nervous, but also almost excited. Instead of twisting in knots, his stomach felt as though it were housing a thousand butterflies.

He parked and saw that the side entrance of the church was marked "Office." He pulled on the door handle only to find that it was locked. He initially found it odd that a church would have its doors locked, but he supposed they needed to protect themselves from unseemly types who might try to exploit the ministry. He could not blame anyone for utilizing as much security as possible.

He rang the doorbell and waited. Through the glass door, he saw a middle-aged man emerge from a hallway. The man was dressed in navy pants and a matching blazer, a pale green shirt, and a deep green tie covered in scenes of Sylvester and Tweety Bird. _And they make fun of my wardrobe,_ Chase thought.

The man smiled warmly, making eye contact through the glass as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Good morning!" he greeted Chase cheerfully. "How can I help you?"

Chase averted his eyes from the friendly stranger. "I have an appointment with Brother Harry Earls," he answered softly, his nerve wavering.

The man extended his hand. "I'm Harry Earls," he said. "You must be the young man I spoke with Friday afternoon."

Chase nodded, shaking the hand that was offered to him as he introduced himself. Somehow the statement made it sound like he was the only young man the pastor had spoken to on Friday. Maybe there were not that many lost souls actively seeking salvation lately. He stepped inside the church and Brother Earls locked the door. Chase felt his heart jump as he heard the clicking sound. He shook away the memory of the clinic door being locked, wondering why the sound had brought back memories this time. He had certainly heard doors being locked since the attack.

"Come with me," Brother Earls directed. He put one hand squarely against Chase's back to guide him to walk beside him instead of behind him.

Chase felt his shoulders tense and he came to a stop. He reminded himself that the man did not know why he was there. _Maybe I should have told him. Or maybe I need to learn to have normal reactions to normal actions instead of needing everyone to treat me like a victim, _he snapped at himself. He walked on, seeing that a large office was just a few steps away.

The pastor closed the office door, ensuring their privacy. "Please have a seat," he said, motioning broadly.

Chase saw that he could choose one of two chairs placed in front of the minister's desk or a comfortable looking burgundy leather couch against the wall. The couch would give him a view of an aquarium that held several brightly colored saltwater fish. The chair would put a safe distance between himself and the other man. He chose the chair, expecting Brother Earls to take the high back executive chair behind the desk.

Instead, he sat down in the other chair, perhaps only a foot away from Chase. "So, Robert--may I call you Robert?" he asked.

Chase nodded. He saw several framed diplomas, licenses, and certificates on the wall behind the desk. Harry Earls was a Licensed Professional Counselor and a Licensed Professional Christian Counselor in addition to having a Bachelor's and Master's degree. Judging from the framed photographs, he was married, had two adult children, and an infant granddaughter.

Brother Earls continued, "You mentioned that you had some questions about sin and accountability."

Chase nodded again. It seemed his voice had decided to go on holiday again.

"Before we get to that, can you tell me about yourself? You're not from around here, I suspect."

Chase shook his head. His mouth felt very dry. "Australia," he answered softly, then cleared his throat. Two months had passed and his voice still was not what it had been pre-injury.

Brother Earls got up, "Where are my manners today?" he asked. He went to a black small refrigerator that was so unobtrusive Chase had not even noticed it when he first scanned the room. He retrieved two bottles of water which he brought back and set on coasters on his desk.

Chase was a little surprised by the gesture, but figured the preacher was acting normally since there were already coasters in place. He did not magically know that Chase had problems with his voice. "Thanks," he said.

"You know, back home, I'd offer you some fried chicken, potato salad, and sweet tea," Brother Earls joked.

Chase laughed, genuinely amused by the notion. "So you're not from around here either?" he asked. He thought he had detected a slight Southern accent.

"No, I'm originally from Georgia."

"How'd you wind up in Princeton?" Chase asked, finding it much easier to speak since he was talking about someone else. He swallowed some of the water.

"I had a church in Nashville for a while. About three years ago, one of the members of this congregation visited while on business. Grace was looking for a minister at the time and he asked if I would be interested in relocating--he was part of the pastor search committee. I told him I would at least come for a visit. When I got here, it was a perfect fit. I knew moving was the right thing to do."

"Oh," Chase nodded. "You like it here?"

"Not the winters, but I'm in the right place. It's where God wants me to be."

"How do you know?" Chase quizzed. "That it's what God wants?" His own life might have taken a different course if he had ever been able to discern the answer to that question for himself.

"I'm at peace with the decision," Brother Earls answered without hesitation.

Chase thought over his answer. "Must be nice," he replied. Talking with Brother Earls was already quite different from talking to Dr. Johnson. He suspected he already knew more about Brother Earls than he would ever know about the psychiatrist. "I agree about the winters," he added.

"How about yourself? How does a young man from Australia wind up in New Jersey?"

"Work," Chase answered. "I came for a diagnostics fellowship at Princeton Plainsboro."

"You're a doctor?" Brother Earls concluded.

"Yes," Chase answered before taking another sip of water.

"So that makes you a… diagnostician?" he sounded as though he had to take time to consider a proper title to go with the focus of the fellowship.

"I'm an intensive care specialist, actually. I'm working on the diagnostician part. My boss is probably the best in the world."

"Best boss?" Brother Earls asked.

"Best diagnostician," Chase corrected, but felt a little guilty. "Don't get me wrong, he's been incredibly good to me but he can be difficult to work with." Chase thought about the kindness House had shown him. "He's a good man."

"How long have you been in the States?"

"Almost four years."

"So, what kind of questions do you have?" Brother Earls asked.

Chase started picking at the paper label on the plastic bottle. The pastor had made him fairly comfortable but the last question made him tense again. Despite having a firm grasp on the reason he had sought this man's counsel, he dreaded having to reveal what had happened. "I, um." He paused as he pressed the paper against the adhesive still left on the bottle. He decided to change his approach. "Did you happen to see the news a couple of months ago about the doctors being held hostage in the clinic at Princeton Plainsboro?"

"Of course. It was a huge story. If I remember correctly, it broke on a Friday or Saturday because the congregation was stirred up about crazy gunmen being on the loose that weekend."

Chase looked down at the crooked label. "I'm one of the doctors." He did not fail to notice that the congregation had been upset _that_ weekend. For the rest of the world, life had gotten back to normal by the time Monday rolled around. The crazy gunmen were still on the loose and Chase knew in his heart that any hope of capturing them had vanished. He would be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life.

"Oh," Brother Earls took a deep breath. "If I recall, one of the doctors was sexually assaulted."

Chase did not look up, "Raped."

"I'm so sorry that one of you went through that," Brother Earls said compassionately. He patted Chase's hand.

"It was me." Chase revealed, pleased with himself for not jerking his hand away from the other man's reach.

"What can I do to help you through this?" Brother Earls asked earnestly, not even batting an eyelash at the revelation.

Chase found it impossible to look at the other man even though there was compassion in his tone. "I need to be forgiven," he whispered.

"Forgiven?" Brother Earls questioned. "For what?"

"I'm not sure," Chase answered. "I feel so… I'm not sure what to confess." He tilted the bottle in his hand forward, watching the water level shift.

"You were raped. There's no sin in being raped."

Chase looked up at that, "How do you _know_?"

The pastor reached for a Bible that was on his desk and turned to a passage in Deuteronomy and read aloud, _"If in the field the man finds the girl who is engaged, and the man forces her and lies with her, then only the man who lies with her shall die. But you shall do nothing to the girl; there is no sin in the girl worthy of death, for just as a man rises against his neighbor and murders him, so is this case. When he found her in the field, the engaged girl cried out, but there was no one to save her."_

Chase considered the verse, searching his memory for the passage. "But doesn't that go on to say that if the girl wasn't engaged already, the man has to pay for her and then she has to be his wife?"

"Well, yes," Brother Earls answered, clearly surprised that Chase was aware of the text.

"I'm not trying to be argumentative," Chase apologized, knowing it probably would have been much easier for Brother Earls if he had not questioned the rest of the passage. "I just don't understand the contradiction. If she has no sin, why does she have to suffer _the rest of her life _over an act someone else committed? It's like she _is_ marked forever by what he did to her. She has no rights at all. He took them away and she's stuck with him if they don't kill him first. He _owns_ her, either way." Chase shivered as the word hit him. That was exactly what he felt like and he had not even realized it. Joe Smith had taken possession of his life. This stranger owned him and there was no room for Cameron or anyone else to break that hold.

"Keep in mind that in this day, women were little more than property. If you can quote Deuteronomy to me, I'm going to assume that you're not ignorant of the Book."

"I've read it all," Chase replied testily. "I've _studied_ it all. Obviously not enough, because I can't get a grasp on this."

"The Old Testament is a history book and a look at the laws as they were. Do you remember the food laws?" The pastor asked.

Chase nodded, wondering where he was headed.

"Those changed. Laws about sacrificial cleansing for sins changed. It was a different society. Remember that in the context of this society, she had few rights to start with."

"So that makes it okay? The principles aren't supposed to change just because the society does." He tried to ease his tone, reminding himself that he should not be angry that the pastor had assumed he had never read the Bible. "I don't mean to sound rude," he added. "I just need answers that make sense and I haven't been able to find that on my own," he explained. "I've always asked too many questions," he added quietly.

"You're not asking too many questions, Robert, and it's not wrong for you to keep asking until you find what you need. _Seek and ye shall find_," he said, quoting another verse. "We'll find what you need somehow," he promised. "I believe what you have to focus on is not the actions of the society toward the gir--victim. What you should take from this passage is the very clear statement that the victim committed no sin, even under the extremely strict Jewish law of the Old Testament history. Therein lies the answer to your question about accountability. As for the abysmal treatment of women in ancient times, remember that Jesus actively helped change the view of women by letting them be His followers."

Chase was not quite ready to accept the answer. "What about Tamar?" he asked, referring to the daughter of King David who had been raped by her half brother Amnon. "She became a _desolate woman,_" he quoted the common interpretation. "No one wanted her after she was raped. Or maybe someone did want her, but she was too afraid let anyone in. Her life may as well have been over and she was the daughter of the king!" He feared that desolation might be his own fate if his insanity drove away everyone who was putting up with him. He was certain he would remain alone if could not recover enough to handle intimacy.

"Is that how you feel, Robert? Like your life may as well be over?"

Chase searched for the right answer, but the best he could give was a shrug. He was well aware that whatever answer he had today could change tomorrow as hope and despair fought a war for dominance.

"At any time, have you considered hurting yourself?" Brother Earls asked.

"I'm not going to kill myself," he answered, frustrated that everyone eventually got around to this. Did no one realize that he would not be desperately seeking help if he were suicidal? He would do it and get it over with. It would be as easy as injecting himself with the right dose of the right drug.

"That's not what I asked you."

"I'm… confused," Chase admitted, surprising himself with his candor. "I don't think about ways to go about hurting myself, but I feel like I'm walking under a shadow, like I did something wrong and now I deserve to be punished. Somehow. Or maybe this _was_ my punishment. Maybe I deserved to be punished before and _this_ is how I'm being punished. In that case, then I'm _supposed_ to be suffering. But, maybe, just _maybe_, if I can be forgiven then I won't have to hurt anymore because the punishment will stop."

Brother Earls inhaled deeply, setting his Bible on the desk. He took Chase's hand in his own. "Robert, you're not being punished. That is not how God works."

"But how do you _know_?" Chase asked, his desperation coming through. "How do you know? If trials test your faith to see if it's pure, I've already failed. I was going to become a priest, but my father…" He let himself remembered his father ridiculing him for his aspirations.

__

"If your God is so powerful and loving, why isn't he answering your prayers?" Rowan asked coolly. "You are praying for Victoria, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," Chase answered.

"Is she getting any better?"

"It takes time."

"What? No miracle?"

"It takes faith."

"You need to leave this insanity, Robert. Come with me. I'll get you into the best medical program in the country. You'll have a head start and be the top of your class. I haven't sent you to the best academy in Melbourne so you can go hide away in a church and do nothing."

"If I wanted to be a doctor, I could get myself into medical school. I'm not going to be beholden to you for the rest of my life," he replied in the same chilly tone his father used. "The ministry isn't doing nothing. It's helping the needy and the lost. It's a calling."

"Help the sick instead, Robert. What will God think if you don't use the ability that supposedly He gave you? You're too intelligent to throw your life away on fairytales. "

"I'm not throwing my life away. I'm taking care of my mother. Somebody has to!" he snapped, unable to hide his anger.

"You're enabling her. She needs to wake up alone and realize what she's done to herself and her life. You need to walk away, Robert. God can't save her. She has to do that for herself."

__

Chase resisted believing those words. "God can save anyone!" he argued, certain that all she needed was more love, more time, more prayers. "I'm not leaving her. She's going to get better."

"You're so naïve."

"We don't need you anyway!" Chase yelled. "Just walk out--again. It's what you do best. God won't abandon us like you did." He had faith that God would make his mother better and he would spend the rest of his life in grateful service.

"When you face reality, call me."

Reality hit him when he found his mother's body.

He focused on Brother Earls and continued his story. "When my mother died, I lost my faith. I did what my father wanted. I picked him over God and never pleased either of them. I walked away from God."

"And now you're walking back," Brother Earls reminded him. "You never really abandoned Him and He has never abandoned you."

"He wasn't there in that clinic," Chase argued, angry at the implication that God had been with him all this time. "He wasn't there when they were holding us at gunpoint or hitting me or when he was choking me or--" he stopped abruptly. "Wait a second." Chase felt as if he had just been woken from a very vivid dream. The image was overpowering, but quickly fleeting. He wanted to close his eyes and go back into the image. His jaw fell slack as the memory came back to him again. "He _was_ there." He closed his eyes, remembering.

"Where?" Brother Earls asked.

"When he was strangling me," Chase answered, absently touching his right hand to his neck. He briefly made eye contact with the minister while he explained, "I was dying. I know I was dying, but there was light and warmth." He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, then held it, struggling to remember what it had felt like, what it had looked like, the blinding white that was nothing and everything all at the same time. "I think my heart stopped because I remember it was pumping so hard and so painfully and my lungs felt like they would explode if I didn't get some oxygen, but then all the pain just _stopped_ and there was… comfort." He searched within himself for more of the memory, but it was disrupted by connected memory of foul breath pouring into his lungs instead. "I want to go back," he said, trying to force his mind to return to the moment of light.

"Go back?"

"To the light," Chase answered. "Because it was… the light was love." He did not feel the tears that slid down his cheeks. Images flashed through his mind, the juxtaposition of the light and the horror preceding and following that brief reprieve. There _had_ been a moment when he was not alone. "I want to be _there_. I want to be loved," Chase admitted in a whisper. "If I had let go then, if I had stayed there, then none of this would matter because it wouldn't have been _me_ that was raped. It would have been a body and I would have gotten away before he made me _this_." He looked down at himself, disgusted with everything about him.

"That man didn't change you into something else," Brother Earls tried to assure him. "The only One who can change you is God Himself."

"You don't understand!" Chase argued. "He's still _on_ me. He's all over me. He owns me just like that poor girl in the field," he hung his head. "Please help me. I'm trying so hard to be what I was before, but I'm not… I'm not ready. It _still_ hurts, but I don't want them to know because they're going to get tired of me. They think I'm getting better and I am, sort of, but not fast enough." Images of faces flashed through his mind--House, Cameron, Wilson. They all had been supportive, but they were all bound to tire of him eventually if they had not already. He could not let them know how much pain was still eating away at him. "He did change me. I'm afraid of everything now. I'm afraid to be alone. I'm afraid to be too close to someone. I'm going through the motions and pretending to be better as much as I can, but it's all going to crash. That's why you have to forgive me," he plead.

"Robert, look at me," Brother Earls directed.

Chase looked up, viewing the pastor's kind face through watery vision.

"I honestly do not believe you need to be forgiven for having this horrible thing happen to you."

Chase blinked, watching the other man, searching his mind for a way to convince the preacher that he did have to be forgiven, just in case he was being punished.

"But what really matters here is that you believe you need to be forgiven. I think it's time you turn to God for the answers that man can't give you."

"How?"

"Just pray. Whether you speak aloud or pour your soul out in silence, just talk to God. He knows what you need."

"I…" Chase's voice shook. "I don't know what to say. That's why I need help."

"We'll pray together," Brother Earls encouraged. To Chase's surprise, the man got on his knees on the carpeted floor, facing the seat of the chair as he folded his hands together. He looked up to Chase, "Will you pray with me?"

"I--" Chase had no idea what to say. The concept of getting on bended knee for prayer was certainly familiar to him, but not a thing he had done since begging for his mother's life to be changed so many years ago. He was uncertain that he could even do it. But Brother Earls looked to him with such kindness in his eyes, that Chase let himself trust the other man. He cautiously got on the floor, facing his own chair. His mind whirled as he remembered the last time he had been on his knees. It was almost enough to make him jump to his feet, but he realized he was not afraid of the pastor so there was no reason to fear this position. Chase watched the other man nod to him, then bow his head.

"Our Father in heaven, I come to you today with a heavy heart," Brother Earls started. "My Christian brother has questions I can't answer and I recognize my own limitations as your servant. Lord, Robert is deeply wounded by this heinous act committed against him. He needs to feel your love and your grace. Please hear him and comfort him. Please give him the answers he needs." Brother Earls turned to Chase, "Just say what's in your heart."

"I," Chase started, looking at the other man.

"Not to me," the pastor said. "To Him," he looked upward.

Chase closed his eyes to block out the sight of the other man. "I'm sorry," he cried. "I don't know what to confess. This all started like this, on my knees. I had to do stuff I didn't want to do so they wouldn't kill me or Foreman or anyone else." He remembered the tape around his wrists. He had been bound by this ever since. "I don't know why they picked me. If I did something to cause this, I don't know what it was, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't stop it somehow and I'm sorry that Foreman was there and that he has to live with it too and I'm sorry for needing so much help. Please forgive me for letting this happen." Chase rested his head on the seat of the chair, letting tears spill from his eyes. Brother Earls kept one hand on his back in a show of support.

In his mind, Chase saw himself in the diagnostics office, getting the message from Foreman to come to the clinic. He remembered walking through the clinic doors and noticing the few people still waiting to be seen. He remembered opening the door and meeting the patient who would become his assailant. He saw Dave and the gun. The gun and Foreman. The gun and Foreman and a small girl in the waiting room who had been clinging to her tired mother. The gun.

"Control," he said, looking up to see the pastor watching him closely.

"What about control?" Brother Earls asked softly.

"I didn't have any control," Chase said, an odd feeling of relief washing over him. "I _really_ didn't have any control over the situation."

"I know," Brother Earls agreed. "You couldn't help it."

"No," Chase said. "You don't get it. I _really_ didn't have any control!" He shifted from his knees, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed.

Brother Earls looked at him questioningly, joining him in the more comfortable position.

"It was easier to blame myself than to admit I didn't have any control. As long as you hang onto the idea of having some kind of control, you don't quite have to accept that someone else can hurt you, rape you, kill you, and you have no power to stop it. I think it's a way of protecting yourself in the aftermath to believe that you _could have _protected yourself even if you couldn't. Admitting you can't always protect yourself is admitting that it could happen again and that life is uncertain and unfair and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

The pastor nodded, "I think I understand what you're saying."

"It wasn't me," Chase whispered. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"No, you didn't," the pastor smiled.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Chase repeated, relief flooding through him. "It's not your sin if you're not in control." He covered his face with both hands. The stream of tears flowing from his eyes felt as if they were cleansing his very soul, so he just let them go along with the idea that he could have stopped what had happened.

The pastor sat next to him, wrapped one arm around his shoulders and pulled Chase to him in an easy embrace. Brother Earls patiently let the young man release his emotions, providing a cloth handkerchief when Chase was ready to dry his eyes.

"Thank you," Chase said to the pastor. "Thank you for helping me talk to God again."

"I'm always here if you need me," he promised.

Chase nodded, "Thank you."

"How are you feeling?"

Chase bit his lower lip and took a deep breath, giving himself a moment to clear his head from the emotions and memories. The weight of the misplaced burden of guilt was gone. He could breathe again. "I think I'm going to be okay."

__

The End? Maybe?

(look for an epilogue)

__

AN: I'm sorry it took so long to update. The lack of Chase on the show is quite **un**inspiring. This was another hard chapter and I debated whether or not I wanted to "go there." But it's canon that the religious background is part of who Chase is, so I couldn't do the character justice without really addressing his spirituality. This awful thing affected the whole person, not just his mind and body, but also his soul. This is why the story wasn't letting me go. I hadn't covered all the bases. So, this is it. I think. I envision an epilogue (or a sequel) that will pick up a little later, but this leaves Chase in an okay place. If you have burning questions, now's the time to ask! LOL Comments are welcomed, valued, and appreciated more than you know. Thanks for taking the journey with me.


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